Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn: SONNET ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST. In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ Ι. ON MRS. CLARKE.n Lo! where this silent marble weeps, m See Memoirs, Sect. III. p. 133. n This lady, the wife of Dr. Clarke, physician at Epsom, died April 27,1757; and is buried in the church of Beckenham, Kent. ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS. HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 4416 *This Epitaph was written at the request of Mr.Frederic Montagu, who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which this accomplished youth was killed, 1761; but from some difficulty attending the erection of it, this design was not executed. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complaiu Of such, as wand'ring 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 twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'dy Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Along the cool sequester'd vale of life Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd; Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingʼring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill,... Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; |