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the lone pile with ivy overspread,
 * Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,

Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed—
 * O humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain!
 * And there his spirit most delights to rove:

Young Edmund! fam'd for each harmonious strain,
 * And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide.
 * And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume,

His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride
 * Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue!
 * Wheree'er with wildered steps she wandered pale,

Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,
 * Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.