Whoe'er Thou Art Whose Pat In Summer Lies

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