by Tobias Smollett
Where now are all my flattering dreams of joy?
Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest;
Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,
Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast.
Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,
With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour;
Lead beauty through the mazes of the ball,
Or press her, wanton, in Love's roseate bower.
For me, no more I'll range the empurpled mead,
Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around,
Nor wander through the woodbine's fragrant shade
To hear the music of the grove resound.
I'll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall,
Where fancy paints the glimmering taper blue,
Where damps hang mouldering on the ivied wall,
And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew:
There, leagued with hopeless anguish and despair,
Awhile in silence o'er my fate repine:
Then, with a long farewell to Love and Care,
To kindred dust my weary limbs consign.
Wilt thou, Monimia, shed a gracious tear
On the cold grave where all my sorrows rest?
Strew vernal flowers, applaud my love sincere,
And bid the turf lie easy on my breast?