But to recur to him who rests beneath--
He had a heart enthusiastic, warm,
And form'd for love--no prejudice dwelt there;
He roam'd about the world to find a heart
Which felt with his, he sought, and found it not.
Or if he found it, providence stepp'd in,
And tore the cherish'd object from his sight,
Or fill'd its mind with visions weak and vain--
Could he survive all this? ah, no! he died,--
Died by the hand which injur'd none but him.
And did he die unpitied and unwept,--
Most probably, for there are fools who think
'T is crime in man to take what is his own--
And 't was on account they laid him here,
Within this sweet, unconsecrated, spot.
There comes a troop of maidens and of youths
Home from their labour--hark! they cease their song,
And, pointing to the grave, with trembling hands,
They make a circuit, thinking that in me
The ghost of the self-murderer they view--
Which, fame says, wanders here.
LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.
The Right Honourable the Earl of Albemarle
T.
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