ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST.

49

SONNET

ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST.

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join; Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. These ears, alas! for other notes repine;

A different object do these eyes require : My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men: The fields to all their wonted tribute bear:

To warm their little loves the birds complain: I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

7

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ Ι.

ON MRS. JANE CLERKE.

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps;
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues loved to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.
In agony, in death resign'd,

She felt the wound she left behind,
Her infant image here below,

Sits smiling on a father's woe:

Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
Till time shall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

EPITAPH II.

ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS.

HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, Young Williams fought for England's fair renown; His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd his frame, Nor envy dared to view him with a frown.

At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,

There first in blood his infant honour seal'd. From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew; And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field.

With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast,
Victor he stood on Bellisle's rocky steeps-
Ah, gallant youth! this marble tells the rest,

Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,