ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED

TO LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave:
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid;
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade
Then maids and youth shall linger here
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

;

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest: And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And, oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire,*
And mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail!
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail !

Richmond church, in which Thomson was buried.

Yet, lives there one whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard! may Fancy die ;
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu !

The genial meads, assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
There hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
'O! vales, and wild woods,' shall he say,
'In yonder grave your Druid lies!'

Collins.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew ;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell:

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

Collins.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER.

No more of mirth and rural joys,
The gay description quickly cloys,
In melting numbers, sadly slow,
I tune my alter'd strings to wo;
Attend, Melpomene, and with thee bring
Thy tragic lute, Euphranor's death to sing.
22*

VOL. III.

Fond wilt thou be his name to praise,
For oft thou heard'st his skilful lays ;
Isis, for him soft tears has shed,

She plac'd her ivy on his head;

Chose him, strict judge, to rule with steady reins
The vigorous fancies of her listening swains.

With genius, wit, and science blest,
Unshaken Honour arm'd his breast,
Bade him, with virtuous courage wise,
Malignant Fortune's darts despise ;

[mend,

Him, ev'n black Envy's venom'd tongues com

As scholar, pastor, husband, father, friend.

For ever sacred, ever dear,

O much-lov'd shade! accept this tear;
Each night indulging pious wo,

Fresh roses on thy tomb I strow,

And wish for tender Spenser's moving verse,
Warbled in broken sobs o'er Sidney's herse.

Let me to that deep cave resort,
Where Sorrow keeps her silent court,
For ever wringing her pale hands,

While dumb Misfortune near her stands,

With downcast eyes the Cares around her wait, And Pity sobbing sits before the gate.

Thus stretch'd upon his grave I

sung,

When straight my ears with murmur rung, A distant, deaf, and hollow sound Was heard in solemn whispers round-'Weep not for me, embath'd in bliss above, In the bright kingdoms bless'd of joy and love.' Joseph Warton.

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS WARTON.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY HIS DAUGHTER.

ACCEPT, O sacred shade, this artless verse,
And kindly, O ye mourning friends, forbear,
To tear, disdaining, from his decent herse,
All I can give except the tender tear.
He must not lie in his cold grave among
Poor shrieking ghosts, unprais'd, unwept, unsung.
Ah! where was I, when fiercely-frowning Death,
With brandish'd dart stood at still midnight nigh,
Why came I not to catch thy dying breath,

?

And close with trembling hand thy languid eye And on my sad breast lay thy drooping head, And bathe with tears thy hand so cold and dead?

Thee do I view in yonder flying cloud?

Or do I hear thee in the hollow wind? Or dost thou still sleep in thy sable shroud, Where the dread judgment trumpet thee shall find?

O till that day, ye pitying angels come,

Shield with your wings, and sing around his tomb.

But if advanc'd to Heaven's empyreal height, Above with glorious martyr'd saints to live, Midst heavenly hymns, and harps, and visions bright,

And all the joys a smiling God can give; O be my watchful guardian angel still,

Save me from slavish vice, from folly, and from ill.

J. W.