To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghosts shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew.
The female fays shall haunt the green
And dress the grave with early dew.

The red-breast oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid.
With hoary moss and gather'd flow'rs
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempest shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed,
Belov'd, till life could charm no more
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.