elegy on “stel”
the follog poe is the work of hapless n of the es who deserved a better fate there is a great deal of “the voice of na” his litary, ournful notes; and had the sentints been clothed shenstone&039;s ngua, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet—rb
strait is the spot and green the d
fro whence y rrows flow;
and undly sleeps the ever dear
habitant below
pardon y transport, ntle shade,
while o&039;er the turf i bow;
thy earthy hoe is circuscrib&039;d,
and litary now
not one poor stone to tell thy na,
or ake thy virtues known:
but what avails to —to thee,
the sculpture of a stone?
i&039;ll sit down upon this turf,
and wipe the risg tear:
the chill bst passes swiftly by,
and flits around thy bier
dark is the dwellg of the dead,
and sad their hoe of rest:
low lies the head, by death&039;s ld ars
awful fold ebrac&039;d
i saw the gri avenr stand
cessant by thy side;
unseen by thee, his deadly breath
thy lrg fra destroy&039;d
pale grew the roses on thy cheek,
and wither&039;d was thy bloo,
till the slow poin brought thy youth
untily to the tob
th wasted are the ranks of n—
youth, health, and beauty fall;
the ruthless ru spreads around,
and overwhels all
behold where, round thy narrow hoe,
the graves unnuber&039;d lie;
the ultitude that sleep below
existed but to die
, with the totterg steps of a,
trod down the dark way;
and , youth&039;s nted pri,
like thee were torn away:
yet these, however hard their fate,
their native earth receives;
aid their weepg friends they died,
and fill their fathers&039; graves
fro thy lov&039;d friends, when first thy heart
was taught by heav&039;n to glow,
far, far reov&03
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