34
VERSES
This is ſure the haunt of fairies,
In yon cool alcove they play;
Care can never croſs the threſhold,
Care was only made for day.
Far from hence be noiſy clamour,
Sick diſguſt and anxious fear;
Pining grief and waſting anguiſh
Never keep their vigils here.
Tell no tales of ſheeted ſpectres
Riſing from the quiet tomb;
Fairer forms this cell ſhall viſit,
Brighter viſions gild the gloom.
Choral ſongs and ſprightly voices
Echo from her cell ſhall call;
Sweeter, ſweeter than the murmur
Of the diſtant water-fall.
