Along the twilight vale I rove
My sorrows o’er the youth to shed,
Where Honour wraps the silent grave,
That darkling seems to mourn the dead.
And oh! tho’ far from thee I stray,
Remembrance oft shall haunt the gloom,
Her tear bedew thy lonely clay,
Her hand with roses strew thy tomb.
On Fancy’s ear shall swell the sigh
By blooming virgins breath’d in vain,