William Lisle Bowles (1762–1850)

IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led

(His bosom glowing from majestic views,

The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape’s hues)

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed,—

’T is poor Matilda!—To the cloistered scene,

A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,

To shed her tears unmarked, and quench the flame

Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene

As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle;

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend,

Like that which spoke of a departed friend,

And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!—

Now, far removed from every earthly ill,

Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.