Around, above, how sorrow builds her throne,
To snatch from death's embrace each treasure gone.
See, how the horrid phantom bends his bow,
And points his dart to lay that victim low![1]
She sinks, she falls, and her fond husband's breast
Is the cold pillow to that marble rest!
But softly tread upon the sacred ground,
Where Britain's bards lie sepulchred round.
Sons of the muse, who woke the magic spell,
From the deep windings of "Apollo's shell!"