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Poem	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 -- 'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene, A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unseen; and quench the flame Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene As the pale midnight on the moon-light isle -- Her voice was soft, which e'en a charm could lend, Like that which spoke of a departed friend, And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Now here remov'd from ev'ry human ill, Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
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