O wood-hung Menaï, and ye sacred groves Of Delphi, we still venerate your names, Whose awful shades inspir'd the Druids dreams. Your recess, tho' imagin’d, Fancy loves, And thro' these long-lost scenes delighted roves: So future bards perhaps shall sing of Thames, And as they sing shall say, 'Twas there of old where mus'd illustrious Gray! By Isis' banks his tuneful lays would suit To Pindar's lofty lyre, or Sappho's Lesbian lute.

Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on, Till sable Night resum'd her ebon throne, And taught us, in his melancholic mood, To scorn the great, and love the wise and good ; Told us, 'twas virtue never dies, And to what ills frail mankind open lies; How safe thro’ life's tempestuous sea to steer, Where dang'rous rocks and shelves and whirl

pools oft appear.

And when fair Morn arose again to view,
A fairer landscape still he drew,
That blooms like Eden in his charming lays,
The hills and dales, and Heav'n's cerulean blue,
Brighten'd o'er all by Sol's resplendent rays.
The musky gale, in rosy vale,
And gilded clouds on azure hills,
The fragrant bow'rs, and painted flow'rs,
And tinklings of the silver rills;
The very insects, that in sun-beams play,
Turn useful monitors in his grave moral lay.

But, ah! sad Melancholy intervenes,
And draws a cloud o'er all these shining scenes.
'Tis her, alas! we often find,
The troubler of each great unbounded mind,
And leagu'd with her associate Fear,
Will tremble lest the turning sphere,
And sinking earth, and reeling planets run
In dire disorder with the falling sun.

But now, great Bard, thy life of pain is o'er ; 'Tis we must weep, tho' thou shalt grieve no more. Thro' other scenes thou now dost rove, And cloth'd with gladness walk'st the courts above, And listen'st to the heav'nly choir, Hymning their God, while seraphs strike the lyre. Safe with them in those radiant climes of bliss, Thou now enjoy'st eternal happiness.

ODE

ON

THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY,

BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

EARL OF CARLISLE.

WHAT spirit's that which mounts on high,
Borne on the arms of every tuneful Muse?

His white robes flutter to the gale:
They wing their way to yonder opening sky,
In glorious state through yielding clouds

they sail, And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse.

What avails the poet's art?

What avails his magic hand?
Can he arrest death's pointed dart,

Or charm to sleep his murderous band?

Well I know thee, gentle shade!

That tuneful voice, that eagle eye. Quick bring me flowers that ne'er shall fade,

The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die; With every

honour deck his funeral bier, For he to every Grace, and every Muse was dear?

The listening Dryad, with attention still,

On tiptoe oft would near the poet steal, To hear him sing upon the lonely hill

Of all the wonders of th' expanded vale, The distant hamlet, and the winding stream,

The steeple shaded by the friendly yew, Sunk in the wood the sun's departing gleam,

Thegrey-rob’d landscape stealing from the view. [56] Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing

woe,

O'er each low tomb he breath'd his pious strain,

A lesson to the village swain, And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow!-

(56] This alludes to Mr. Gray's Elegy written in a Country Church, yard.

LET

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