Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits
On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.
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Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines
The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave
Of the departed Lover; nor more mild
Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,
That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,
Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,
Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,