Fast by the riv’let’s peace-persuading sound;
Where sleeps the moonlight on yon verdant bed,
O, humbly press that consecrated ground!
For there does Edmund rest—the learned swain!
And there his pale-ey’d phantom loves to rove:
Young Edmund, fam’d for each harmonious strain,
And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.
Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the zephyr with its soft perfume;
His manhood blossom’d ere the faithless pride