Elegy

Pardon my transport, gentle Shade,

While o'er this turf I bow!

Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd,

And solitary now!

Not one poor stone to tell thy name,

Or make thy virtues known;

But what avails to me, to thee,

The sculpture of a stone?

I'll sit me down upon this turf,

And wipe away this tear:

The chill blast passes swiftly by,

And flits around thy bier.—

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead,

And sad their house of rest:

Low lies the head by Death's cold arm

In aweful fold embrac'd.—

I saw the grim Avenger stand

Incessant by thy side;

Unseen by thee, his deadly breath

Thy lingering frame destroy'd.—

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,

And wither'd was thy bloom,

Till the slow poison brought thy youth

Untimely to the tomb.—

Thus wasted are the ranks of men,

Youth, Health, and Beauty fall;

The ruthless ruin spreads around,

And overwhelms us all.—

Behold where round thy narrow house

The graves unnumber'd lie!

The multitudes that sleep below

Existed but to die.—

Some, with the tottering steps of Age,

Trode down the darksome way:

And some, in youth's lamented prime,

Like thee, were torn away.—

Yet these, however hard their fate,

Their native earth receives;

Amid their weeping friends they di'd,

And fill their fathers' graves.

From thy lov'd friends where first thy breath

Was taught by Heaven to flow:

Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke

Surpris'd and laid thee low.—

At the last limits of our Isle,

Wash'd by the western wave,

Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful bard

Sits lonely on thy grave.—

Pensive he eyes, before him spread,

The deep outstretch'd and vast;

His mourning notes are borne away

Along the rapid blast.—

And while, amid the silent Dead,

Thy hapless fate he mourns;

His own long sorrows freshly bleed,

And all his grief returns.—

Like thee cut off in early youth

And flower of beauty's pride,

His friend, his first and only joy,

His much lov'd Stella di'd.—

Him too, the stern impulse of Fate

Resistless bears along;

And the same rapid tide shall whelm

The Poet and the Song.—

The tear of pity which he shed,

He asks not to receive;

Let but his poor remains be laid

Obscurely in the grave.—

His grief-worn heart, with truest joy,

Shall meet the welcome shock;

His airy harp shall lie unstrung

And silent on the rock.—

O my dear maid, my Stella, when

Shall this sick period close;

And lead thy solitary Bard,

To his belov'd repose?