---

What beck'ning ghost,

along the moon-light shade

invites my steps

and points to yonder glade?

Is it in heav'n

a crime to love too well?

To bear too tender,

or too firm a heart?

Dim lights of life,

that burn a length of years

Useless, unseen,

as lamps in sepulchres;

Like eastern kings

a lazy state they keep,

And close confin'd

to their own palace, sleep.

What can atone,

oh ever-injur'd shade,

what can atone,

no friend's complaint,

no kind domestic tear.

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,

By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,

By strangers honour'd, by strangers mourn'd!

No hallow'd dirge

be mutter'd now

o'er thy silent tomb.

Yet shall thy grave

forever be

with rising flowers drest.

There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,

There the first roses of the year shall blow;

While angels with their silver wings,

the ground, now sacred by reliques.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,

What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,

'Tis all thou art, tis all thou shall be!

Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,

And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,

Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,

Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!

See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,

These cheeks now fading at the blast of death:

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,

'Tis all thou art, tis all thou shall be!