Mr Elliott


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!”