William Collins (1721–1759)

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 shepherd 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.