“Yet I could see my Alfred’s fix’d despair,
  “And aw’d by filial fear conceal my woes;
“My coward heart cou’d separation bear,
  “And check the struggling anguish as it rose!

“’Twas guilt the barb’rous mandate to obey,
  “Which bade no parting sigh my bosom move,
“Victim of duty’s unrelenting sway,
  “I seemed a traitor, while a slave to love!”

“Let her, who seal’d a lover’s fate, endure
  “The sharpest pressure of deserv’d distress;
“’Twere added perfidy to seek a cure,
  “And stain’d with falsehood, wish to suffer less.

“For wretches doom’d in other griefs to pine,
  “Oft’ will benignant hope her ray impart;
“And pity oft’ from her celestial shrine,
  “Drop a warm tear upon the fainting heart.

“But o’er the lasting gloom of love’s despair,
  “Can hope’s bright ray its cheering visions shed? 
“Can pity sooth the woes that breast must bear,
  “Which vainly loves, and vainly mourns the dead!”

“No! ling’ring still, and still prolong’d, the moan
  “Shall never pause, till heaves my latest breath,
“Till memory’s distracting pang is flown,
  “And all my sorrows shall be hush’d in death.

“And death is pitying come, whose hand shall tear
  “From this afflicted heart the sense of pain;
“My fainting limbs refuse their load to bear,
  “And life no longer will my form sustain.

“Yet once did health’s enliv’ning glow adorn,
  “And pleasure shed for me her loveliest ray,
“Pure as the gentle star that gilds the morn,
  “And constant as the equal light of day!”

“Now those lost pleasures trac’d by memory, seem
  “Like yon’ illusive meteor’s glancing light;
“That o’er the darkness threw its instant gleam,
  “Then sunk, and vanish’d in the depth of night.

“My native vale! and thou delightful bower! 
  “Scenes to my hopeless love for ever dear;
“Sweet vale, for whom the morning wak’d her flow’r,
  “Gay bower, for whom the evening pour’d her tear.

“I ask no more to see your beauties rise—­
  “Ye rocks and mountains, on whose rugged breast
“My Alfred, murder’d by Euphelia, lies,
  “In your deep solitudes oh let me rest!”

“And sure the dawning ray that lights the steep,
  “And slowly wanders o’er the purple wave;
“Will shew me where his sacred relics sleep,
  “Will lead his mourner to her destin’d grave.—­

O’er the high precipice unmov’d she bent,
  A fearful path the beams of morning shew,
The pilgrim reach’d with toil the rude ascent,
  And saw her brooding o’er the deep below.

“Euphelia stay! he cried, thy Alfred calls—­
  “Oh stay, my love! in sorrow yet more dear,
“I come!”—­In vain the soothing accent falls,
  Alas, it reach’d not her distracted ear.

“Ah, what avails, she said, that morning rose? 
  “With fruitless pain I seek his mould’ring clay;
“Vain search! to fill the measure of my woes,
  “The foaming surge has wash’d his corse away.