294. Fidele

William Collins (1720—1759)

  TO fair Fidele’s grassy tomb

  Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

  Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

  And rifle all the breathing Spring.

  No wailing ghost shall dare appear

  To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;

  But shepherds lads assemble here,

  And melting virgins own their love.

  No wither’d witch shall here be seen,

  No goblins lead their nightly crew;

  The female fays shall haunt the green,

  And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

  The redbreast oft at evening hours

  Shall kindly lend his little aid,

  With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers,

  To deck the ground where thou art laid.

  When howling winds, and beating rain,

  In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;

  Or ’midst the chase, on every plain,

  The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

  Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

  For thee the tear be duly shed;

  Beloved, till life can charm no more;

  And mourn’d, till Pity’s self be dead.