Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies <br />Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove <br />Of branching oaks a rural palace old <br />Imbosoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord <br />Of all the harvest round. and onward thence <br />A low plain chapel fronts the morning light <br />Fast by a silent riv'let. Humbly walk, <br />O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground; <br />And on that verdant hilloc, which thou see'st <br />Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand <br />Sprinkle fresh water from the brook and strew <br />Sweet-smelling flowers. for there doth Edmund rest, <br />The learned shepherd; for each rural art <br />Fam'd, and for songs harmonious, and the woes <br />Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride <br />Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave <br />In manhood's prime. But soon did righteous heaven <br />With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care, <br />Avenge her falshood. nor could all the gold <br />And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith <br />From Edmund to a loftier husband's home, <br />Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside <br />The strokes of death. Go, traveller; relate <br />The mournful story. haply some fair maid <br />May hold it in remembrance, and be taught <br />That riches cannot pay for truth or love.<br /><br />Mark Akenside<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inscriptions-iii-whoe-er-thou-art-whose-pat-in-summer-lies/
