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Alas! she might not-her relentless lord
Had seal'd her lips, and chid her streaming tear; So anguish in her breast conceal'd its hoard, And all the mother sunk in dumb despair.
But thou who own'st a father's sacred name, What act impell'd thee to this ruthless deed? What crime had forfeited my filial claim? [bleed? And given (oh blasting thought!) thy heart to
If then thine injur'd child deserve thy care,
Ye cloister'd fair-ye censure-breathing saints,
I fled not to this mansion's deep recess,
Yet let me to my fate submissive bow;
Ah! when, extended on th' untimely bier,
To yonder vault this form shall be convey'd, Thou❜lt not refuse to shed one grateful tear,
And breathe the requiem to my fleeting shade.
With pious footstep join the sable train,
As through the lengthening aisle they take their
A glimmering taper let thy hand sustain,
Thy soothing voice attune the funeral lay:
Behold the minister who lately gave
The sacred veil, in garb of mournful hue, (More friendly office) bending o'er my grave, And sprinkling my remains with hallow'd dew:
As o'er the corsé he strews the rattling dust,
ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS.
In the full prospect yonder hill commands,
Half buried, there lie many a broken bust,
The rivulets, oft frighted at the sound
Of fragments tumbling from the tow'rs on high, Plung'd to their source in secret caves profound, Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry,
Where reverend shrines in gothic grandeur stood,
There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,
And points to the memento at her feet.
Soon as sage Evening check'd Day's sunny pride,
Sigh'd, as the mouldering monuments I view'd.
Inexorably calm, with silent pace
[way! Here Time hath pass'd-What ruin marks his This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base, Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.
Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes
In vain, and Melody her song sublime: In vain, Philosophy, with maxims wise,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time. Yet the hoar tyrant, though not mov'd to spare, Relented when he struck its finish'd pride; And partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tottering tow'rs with twisted ivy tied.
How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss, That terminates the view, yon cloister'd way! In the crush'd wall, a time-corroded cross, Religion-like, stands mouldering in decay!
Where the mild sun, through saint-encipher'd glass
And Piety, with mystic-meaning beads,
Where now the sacred altar lies o'erturn'd!
Through the gray grove, between those withering trees,
'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears
Low levell'd in the dust her darling's laid!
Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.
The relics of a mitred saint may rest,
Where, mouldering in the niche, his statue stands; Now nameless as the crowd that kiss'd his vest, And crav'd the benediction of his hands.
Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain
His rights and rich demesnes extended wide! That Honour and her knights compos'd his train, And Chivalry stood marshall'd by his side!
Though to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb,
Where the light lyre gave many a softening sound,
The lizard and the lazy lurking bat
Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room, Where the sage matron and her maidens sat, Sweet singing at the silver-working loom.
The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste,
And the rude winds incessant seem to roar, Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac❜d, Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.
His aqueducts, that form'd a limpid tide
Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;