On Fancy’s ear the knell shall die,
That sadden’d all the weeping plain.
Tho’ forced from thee I wander far,
Thy fate shall cloud my rising Morn;
And oft with Evening’s silent star
I’ll hover o’er thy distant urn.
And when to Melancholy’s sigh
The Muse her sorrowing voice shall join,
Thy hapless fate shall fill her eye,
And melt with woe the tender line.