Elegy On Stella（1 / 2）

elegy on “stella”

the following poem is the work of some hapless son of the muses who deserved a better fate. there is a great deal of “the voice of cona” in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in shenstone's language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.—r.b.

strait is the spot and green the sod

from whence my sorrows flow;

and soundly sleeps the ever dear

inhabitant below.

pardon my transport, gentle shade,

while o'er the turf i bow;

thy earthy house is circumscrib'd,

and solitary now.

not one poor stone to tell thy name,

or make thy virtues known:

but what avails to me—to thee,

the sculpture of a stone?

i'll sit me down upon this turf,

and wipe the rising tear:

the chill blast passes swiftly by,

and flits around thy bier.

dark is the dwelling of the dead,

and sad their house of rest:

low lies the head, by death's cold arms

in awful fold embrac'd.

i saw the grim avenger stand

incessant by thy side;

unseen by thee, his deadly breath

thy lingering frame destroy'd.

pale grew the roses on thy cheek,

and wither'd was thy bloom,

till the slow poison brought thy youth

untimely to the tomb.

thus wasted are the ranks of men—

youth, health, and beauty fall;

the ruthless ruin spreads around,

and overwhelms us all.

behold where, round thy narrow house,

the graves unnumber'd lie;

the multitude that sleep below

existed but to die.

some, with the tottering steps of age,

trod down the darksome way;

and some, in youth's lamented prime,