« ForrigeFortsett »
“ Then idly glares full many a motley toy, “ Anacreontic grief, and creeping strains of joy.
« Far other modes were thine,
“ Victim of hasty fate, " Whom now the powers of melody deplore ;
“ Whether in lofty state 
“ Thou bad'st thy train divine
“ Or hoping from thyself to fly
• To childhood's careless scenes , “ Thou sent’st a warm refreshing eye
« On Nature's faded greens:
“ Or when thy calm and steadfast mind
“ With philosophic reach profound “ Self-pleasing vanities resign'd,
“ Fond of the look, that loves the ground ; “ Discern'd by Reason's equal light, “ How gaudy Fortune cheats the sight;
 See Gray's Pindaric Odes.
“ While the coarse maid, inur'd to pain, “ Supports the lab'ring heart, and Virtue's happiest
“ But most the music of thy plaintive moan 
“ With lengthen d note detains the list'ning ear, “ As lost in thought thou wander'st all alone “ Where spirits hover round their mansions
By Contemplation's eye serenely view'd,
“ Each lowly object wears an awful mien: “ 'Tis our own blindness veils the latent good:
6. The works of Nature need but to be seen.
“ Thou saw'st her beaming from the hamlet-sires
“ Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade ;
 Church-yard Elegy.
THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.
BY A LADY.
WHERE sleeps the Bard who grac'd Museus '
hearse With fragrant trophies by the Muses wove! Shall Gray's cold urn in vain demand the verse,
Oh! can his Mason fail in plaintive love?
No; with the Nine inwrapp'd in social woe,
His lyre unstrung, sad vigil he must keep; With them he mourns, with them his eyes o'erflow,
For such a Bard immortal Maids can weep.
Their early pupil in the heav'nly lore
Of sacred poesy and moral song, They taught the youth on eagle wing to soar,
And bore him thro' aërial heights along.
Fancy, obedient to their dread command,
With brilliant Genius, marshall’d forth his way; They lur'd his steps to Cambria's once-fam'd land,
And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay.
But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre,
Imperious Death! from thy fell grasp to save; He knew, and told it with a Poet's fire,
“ The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.”
And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing mind
Mourn'd o'er the simple Rustic's turfy cell, To strew his tomb no grateful Mourner find,
No Village Swain to ring one parting knell?
Yes, honour'd shade! the fringed brook I'll trace,
Green rushes culling thy dank grave to strew; With mountain flow'rs I'll deck the hallow'd place,
And fence it round with osiers mix'd with yew.
TEARS OF GENIUS:
BY MR. TAITE.
ON Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hal
low'd fane Majestic rises on the astonish'd sight, Where oft the Muse has led the favourite swain, And warm’d his soul with Heaven's inspiring
Beneath the covert of the sylvan shade,
Where deadly cypress,mix'd with mournful yew, Far o'er the vale a gloomy stillness spread,
Celestial Genius burst upon the view.