Strait is the spot and green the sodFrom whence my sorrows flow;And soundly sleeps the ever dearInhabitant below.4
Pardon my transport, gentle shade,While o’er the turf I bow;Thy earthy house is circumscrib’d,And solitary now.8
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?12
I’ll sit me down upon this turf,And wipe the rising tear:The chill blast passes swiftly by,And flits around thy bier.16
Dark is the dwelling of the Dead,And sad their house of rest:Low lies the head, by Death’s cold armsIn awful fold embrac’d.20
I saw the grim Avenger standIncessant by thy side;Unseen by thee, his deadly breathThy lingering frame destroy’d.24
Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,And wither’d was thy bloom,Till the slow poison brought thy youthUntimely to the tomb.28
Thus wasted are the ranks of men—Youth, Health, and Beauty fall;The ruthless ruin spreads around,And overwhelms us all.32
Behold where, round thy narrow house,The graves unnumber’d lie;The multitude that sleep belowExisted but to die.36
Some, with the tottering steps of Age,Trod down the darksome way;And some, in youth’s lamented prime,Like thee were torn away:40
Yet these, however hard their fate,Their native earth receives;Amid their weeping friends they died,And fill their fathers’ graves.44
From thy lov’d friends, when first thy heartWas taught by Heav’n to glow,Far, far remov’d, the ruthless strokeSurpris’d and laid thee low.48
At the last limits of our isle,Wash’d by the western wave,Touch’d by thy face, a thoughtful bardSits lonely by thy grave.52
Pensive he eyes, before him spreadThe deep, outstretch’d and vast;His mourning notes are borne awayAlong the rapid blast.56
And while, amid the silent DeadThy hapless fate he mourns,His own long sorrows freshly bleed,And all his grief returns:60
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, died.64
Him, too, the stern impulse of FateResistless bears along;And the same rapid tide shall whelmThe Poet and the Song.68
The tear of pity which he sheds,He asks not to receive;Let but his poor remains be laidObscurely in the grave.72
His grief-worn heart, with truest joy,Shall meet he welcome shock:His airy harp shall lie unstrung,And silent on the rock.76
O, my dear maid, my Stella, whenShall this sick period close,And lead the solitary bardTo his belov’d repose?80