Near the lone pile with ivy overspread, <br />Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, <br />Where 'sleeps the moonlight' on yon verdant bed-- <br />O humbly press that consecrated ground! <br /> <br />For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! <br />And there his spirit most delights to rove: <br />Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain, <br />And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. <br /> <br />Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, <br />And loads the west wind with its soft perfume, <br />His manhood blossomed: till the faithless pride <br />Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. <br /> <br />But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! <br />Where'er with wildered step she wandered pale, <br />Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view, <br />Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. <br /> <br />With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, <br />Amid the pomp of affluence she pined; <br />Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms <br />Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. <br /> <br />Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught: <br />Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth, <br />May hold it in remembrance; and be taught <br />That riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/elegy-imitated-from-one-of-akenside-s-blank-verse-inscriptions/
