Sadly reclining under a willow,
Inwardly pining Edward was laid;
Rushes his couch were, the green moss his pillow,
Darker this thoughts than the sad-waving shade.
Faster his tears than the babbling brook strayed.
“Lost is the treasure fondly I cherish’d —
Fled is the pleasure that all could illume —
Lovely illusions, with her ye have perish’d,
Leaving naught here but despondence and gloom:
Myra is laid in the dark silent tomb!
“Yet sure her spirit, purity’s semblance,
Bliss does inherit sainted above;
Sorrow shall melt into holy remembrance,
Union mysterious and sweet shall we prove;
Mortal her frame, but immortal our Love!”