Ah, left alone beneath the dreadful gloom,
Companion of the tempest! left alone!
I see thee, sad-reclining o’er the tomb,
A pallid form, and wedded to the stone!
Ah! what avails it, Sorrow’s gentlest child,
To wet the unfruitful urn with many a tear;
To call on Edward’s name, with accents wild,
And bid his phantom from the grave appear?
No gliding spirit skim the dreary ground,
Dress the green turf, or animate the gloom,