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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,
But, ah! sad Melancholy intervenes,
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.
THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY,
BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
EARL OF CARLISLE.
WHAT spirit's that which mounts on high,
His white robes flutter to the gale:
they sail, And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse.
What avails the poet's art?
What avails his magic hand?
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.  Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing
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.