Elegy Iv. Ophilia's Urn. To Mr. Graves Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABAB CDCD EFEF DADA GHGH IAI JKJK LMLM NJNJ OPOP| Through the dim veil of evening's dusky shade | A |
| Near some lone fane or yew's funereal green | B |
| What dreary forms has magic Fear survey'd | A |
| What shrouded spectres Superstition seen | B |
| - | |
| But you secure shall pour your sad complaint | C |
| Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array | D |
| What none but Fear's officious hand can paint | C |
| What none but Superstition's eye survey | D |
| - | |
| The glimmering twilight and the doubtful dawn | E |
| Shall see your step to these sad scenes return | F |
| Constant as crystal dews impearl the lawn | E |
| Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn | F |
| - | |
| Sure nought unhallow'd shall presume to stray | D |
| Where sleep the relics of that virtuous maid | A |
| Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way | D |
| Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid | A |
| - | |
| Haply thy Muse as with unceasing sighs | G |
| She keeps late vigils on her urn reclined | H |
| May see light groups of pleasing visions rise | G |
| And phantoms glide but of celestial kind | H |
| - | |
| Then Fame her clarion pendent at her side | I |
| Shall seek forgiveness of Ophelia's shade | A |
| 'Why has such worth without distinction died | I |
| Why like the desert's lily bloom'd to fade ' | - |
| - | |
| Then young Simplicity averse to feign | J |
| Shall unmolested breathe her softest sigh | K |
| And Candour with unwonted warmth complain | J |
| And Innocence indulge a wailful cry | K |
| - | |
| Then Elegance with coy judicious hand | L |
| Shall cull fresh flowerets for Ophelia's tomb | M |
| And Beauty chide the Fate's severe command | L |
| That show'd the frailty of so fair a bloom | M |
| - | |
| And Fancy then with wild ungovern'd woe | N |
| Shall her loved pupil's native taste explain | J |
| For mournful sable all her hues forego | N |
| And ask sweet solace of the Muse in vain | J |
| - | |
| Ah gentle Forms expect no fond relief | O |
| Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore | P |
| Well may ye grieve nor find an end of grief | O |
| Your best your brightest favourite is no more | P |
William Shenstone
(1)
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