AN ELEGY.

BY SIR B— G—.

IN Burton's favourite groves, alas, how chang'd
 By Charlotte's death! oft let me devious rove
 Indulging grief; where gladsome once I rang'd,
 In sweet society with Peace and Love. 

Oft in the silent evening, all alone,
 When solemn twilight shades the face of day,
 The plaintive Muse shall hither waft her moan;
 With tenderest passion here inspire my lay. 

These hours, allotted to that Muse's hand,
 To latest time thy memory shall endear;
 While soft ideas rise at her command,
 And in luxurious sorrow prompt the tear. 

Recal, soft fame of gentleness and Love! 
That calm, which triumph'd o'er thy parting breath;
 That blooming texture by the Graces wove:
 — And are those eyes for ever set in Death? 

One more — and then — farewel! one lingering view
 Tore my fond soul from all it held so dear:
 Twas o'er! — farewel — my joys: sweet hope, adieu!
 — Adieu, my love! — We part for ever here:

No! in the still of night, my restless thought
 Pursues thy image thro' its change unknown;
 Steals oft unnotic'd to the dreary vault,
 And in that vale of Sorrow pours my own:

Nor, since the hour that clos'd our blooming scene,
 Once has it wander'd from its darling trust:
 It sounds thy voice; still animates thy mien;
 And haunts thy slumbers in the sacred dust. 

Each conscious walk of Tenderness and Joy,
 Thy faithful partner oft alone shall tread;
 Recount, while anguish heaves the frequent sigh,
 How bliss on bliss thy smiling influence shed! 

Though mine be many — many rolling years! 
Extatic thought shall linger still on thee! 
Time rolls in vain — Remembrance, with her tears —
 — You that have lost an angel — pity me! 

Thy smiles were mine — were oft; and only mine;
 Nor yet forsook me in the face of death;
 E'en now they live — still o'er thy beauties shine:
 For Fancy's magic can restore thy breath. 

Painful reflection! — can the active mind,
 Which penetrates the vast expanse of Day,
 Long languish in this palsied mass confin'd,
 Nor burst these fetters of obtruding clay? 

Ah, no! — she beckons me — for yet she lives! 
Lives in yon regions of unfading joy! 
She points the fair reward that Virtue gives;
 — Which chance, nor change, nor ages can destroy. 

Let Folly animate this transient scene
 With every bloom that Fancy can supply! 
Reflection bends not on a point so mean;
 Nor courts this moment, since the next we die. 

The dearest objects hasten to decay:
 (An aweful lesson to the pensive mind!) 
My Charlotte's beauties so soon pass'd away:
 Nor left, but in my heart, a wreck behind!