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 bst 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 aveand
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 poisht thy y
Elegy On “Stella”(2/6)