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. R2 THE TEARS OF GENIUS: AN ODE. BY MR. TAITE. ON Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'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 light. 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. The bloom of youth, the majesty of years, Give tranquil joy the breast ne'er knew before, Haste, ye sister powers of song, For graver strains prepare the plaintive lyre, The blissful Muse, whose favouring smile In Transport's radiant garments drest, gaze. The gaudy train, who wait on Spring[69], The youths who mount on Pleasure's wing, [70], With cool regard their various arts employ, joy. Ha! what forms, with port sublime[71], Scorning all the threats of time, High above Misfortune's flood? They seize their harps, they strike the lyre, [69] Ode on Spring. [70] Ode on the Prospect of Eton College. Obedient Nature hears the lofty sound, And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains re sound. In pomp of state, behold they wait, To snatch on high to yonder sky, But ah! in vain they strive to sooth, With frantic fury and insatiate rage, She gnaws the throbbing breast and blasts the glowing page. No more the soft Æolian flute [73] Breathes thro' the heart the melting strain; [72]Hymn to Adversity. |