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34 Thou gem of maids—inexorable fair, By all the sacred relics I protest That when I die, the victim of despair, On thee the guilt of poet’s death will rest! To-morrow shall I in my grave be laid, Amid the leaves and floating forest shade, In yon ash grove—my verdant birchen trees Shall be the mourners of my obsequies! My spotless shroud shall be of summer flowers, My coffin hewn from out the woodland bowers; The flowers of wood and wild shall be my pall, My bier eight forest branches green and tall; And thou shalt see the white gulls of the main In thousands gather there to bear my train; And e’en the very woodlands will be seen To move and join the sad funereal scene! The thicket of the rocks my church shall be, Two nightingales, (enchantress, chos’n by thee,) The sacred idols of the sanctuary! Its altars raised of brick, its verdant floor With nature’s varied pavement chequered o’er. Ne’er do its portals jar with angry cries, Its leafy depths have baffled Eithig’s eyes. Skill’d are its holy monks of orders grey, In Latin lore and in poetic lay; In all the metres ever writ or read, In the green volumes through the forests spread! There, tones of organ loud and tiny bell, By woodland minstrels waken’d, frequent swell;