Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Elegy

Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,        &nbspFast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where 'sleeps the moonlight' on yon verdant bed—        &nbspO humbly press that consecrated ground! For there does Edmund rest, the learnéd swain!        &nbspAnd there his spirit most delights to rove: Young Edmund! fam'd for each harmonious strain,        &nbspAnd the sore wounds of ill-requited Love. Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,        &nbspAnd loads the West-wind with its soft perfume, His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride        &nbspOf fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. But soon did righteous Heaven her Guilt pursue!        &nbspWhere'er with wilder'd step she wander'd pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,        &nbspStill Edmund's voice accus'd her in each gale. With keen regret, and conscious Guilt's alarms,        &nbspAmid the pomp of Affluence she pined; Nor all that lur'd her faith from Edmund's arms        &nbspCould lull the wakeful horror of her mind. Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:        &nbspSome tearful Maid perchance, or blooming Youth, May hold it in remembrance; and be taught        &nbspThat Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.