Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,
       &nbspFast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,
Where 'sleeps the moonlight' on yon verdant bed—
       &nbspO humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learnéd swain!
       &nbspAnd there his spirit most delights to rove:
Young Edmund! fam'd for each harmonious strain,
       &nbspAnd the sore wounds of ill-requited Love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
       &nbspAnd loads the West-wind with its soft perfume,
His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride
       &nbspOf fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her Guilt pursue!
       &nbspWhere'er with wilder'd step she wander'd pale,
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,
       &nbspStill Edmund's voice accus'd her in each gale.

With keen regret, and conscious Guilt's alarms,
       &nbspAmid the pomp of Affluence she pined;
Nor all that lur'd her faith from Edmund's arms
       &nbspCould lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
       &nbspSome tearful Maid perchance, or blooming Youth,
May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
       &nbspThat Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.