Whoe'er Thou Art Whose Pat In Summer Lies

Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies

Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove

Of branching oaks a rural palace old

Imbosoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord

Of all the harvest round. and onward thence

A low plain chapel fronts the morning light

Fast by a silent riv'let. Humbly walk,

O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;

And on that verdant hilloc, which thou see'st

Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand

Sprinkle fresh water from the brook and strew

Sweet-smelling flowers. for there doth Edmund rest,

The learned shepherd; for each rural art

Fam'd, and for songs harmonious, and the woes

Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride

Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave

In manhood's prime. But soon did righteous heaven

With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care,

Avenge her falshood. nor could all the gold

And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith

From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,

Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside

The strokes of death. Go, traveller; relate

The mournful story. haply some fair maid

May hold it in remembrance, and be taught

That riches cannot pay for truth or love.