"Remember me—Oh! pass not thou my grave
Without one thought whose relics there recline:
The only pang my bosom dare not brave,
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.
"My fondest—faintest—latest—accents hear:
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;
Then give me all I ever asked—a tear,
The first—last—sole reward of so much love!" 360
He passed the portal, cross'd the corridore,
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er:
"My own Medora—sure thy song is sad—"
"In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad?
"Without thine ear to listen to my lay,
"Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray:
"Still must each accent to my bosom suit,
"My heart unhush'd—although my lips were mute!
"Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclin'd, 369
"My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind,