To fair Fidele's grassy tomb <br /> Soft maids and village hinds shall bring <br /> Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom, <br /> And rifle all the breathing spring. <br /> <br /> No wailing ghost shall dare appear, <br /> To vex with shrieks this quiet grove: <br /> But shepherd lads assemble here, <br /> And melting virgins own their love. <br /> <br /> No wither'd witch shall here be seen, <br /> No goblins lead their nightly crew: <br /> The female fays shall haunt the green, <br /> And dress thy grave with pearly dew! <br /> <br /> The redbreast oft at ev'ning hours <br /> Shall kindly lend his little aid: <br /> With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs, <br /> To deck the ground where thou art laid. <br /> <br /> When howling winds, and beating rain, <br /> In tempests shake the sylvan cell, <br /> Or midst the chase on ev'ry plain, <br /> The tender thought on thee shall dwell. <br /> <br /> Each lonely scene shall thee restore, <br /> For thee the tear be duly shed: <br /> Belov'd, till life could charm no more; <br /> And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.<br /><br />William Taylor Collins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-song-from-shakespeare-s-cymbeline-sung-by-guid/
