An Elegy.

AN ELEGY.

BY SIR B— G—.

IN Burton's favourite groves, alas, how chang'd By Charlotte's death! oft let me devious rove Indulging grief; where gladsome once I rang'd, In sweet society with Peace and Love.

Oft in the silent evening, all alone, When solemn twilight shades the face of day, The plaintive Muse shall hither waft her moan; With tenderest passion here inspire my lay.

These hours, allotted to that Muse's hand, To latest time thy memory shall endear; While soft ideas rise at her command, And in luxurious sorrow prompt the tear.

Recal, soft fame of gentleness and Love! That calm, which triumph'd o'er thy parting breath; That blooming texture by the Graces wove: — And are those eyes for ever set in Death?

One more — and then — farewel! one lingering view Tore my fond soul from all it held so dear: Twas o'er! — farewel — my joys: sweet hope, adieu! — Adieu, my love! — We part for ever here:

No! in the still of night, my restless thought Pursues thy image thro' its change unknown; Steals oft unnotic'd to the dreary vault, And in that vale of Sorrow pours my own:

Nor, since the hour that clos'd our blooming scene, Once has it wander'd from its darling trust: It sounds thy voice; still animates thy mien; And haunts thy slumbers in the sacred dust.

Each conscious walk of Tenderness and Joy, Thy faithful partner oft alone shall tread; Recount, while anguish heaves the frequent sigh, How bliss on bliss thy smiling influence shed!

Though mine be many — many rolling years! Extatic thought shall linger still on thee! Time rolls in vain — Remembrance, with her tears — — You that have lost an angel — pity me!

Thy smiles were mine — were oft; and only mine; Nor yet forsook me in the face of death; E'en now they live — still o'er thy beauties shine: For Fancy's magic can restore thy breath.

Painful reflection! — can the active mind, Which penetrates the vast expanse of Day, Long languish in this palsied mass confin'd, Nor burst these fetters of obtruding clay?

Ah, no! — she beckons me — for yet she lives! Lives in yon regions of unfading joy! She points the fair reward that Virtue gives; — Which chance, nor change, nor ages can destroy.

Let Folly animate this transient scene With every bloom that Fancy can supply! Reflection bends not on a point so mean; Nor courts this moment, since the next we die.

The dearest objects hasten to decay: (An aweful lesson to the pensive mind!) My Charlotte's beauties so soon pass'd away: Nor left, but in my heart, a wreck behind!