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But redder yet that light shall glow,
"Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
ON A BLACK MARBLE BOWL THAT BELONGED TO BURNS.
WITH roses crown the sable bowl,
And let the grape abound;
Let wit and wine flow round.
Pour the luxúriant purple stream,
Bright with its brilliant lot;
Nor the loved maid forgot.
To animate our joys below,
Do thou thy spells apply,
The bands of melody.
Nor be thou absent, dimpled Mirth!
Then bring them in thy train;
Gay, social Pleasure's bane!
And ye, fell fiends, wan Grief, and Care!
To howling wilds retire:
Respund to rapture's lyre.
Why heaves my breast th' unbidden sigh? Why, to compassion's pensive eye,
Spontaneous starts the tear?
Remembrance tells, yon fatal Bowl
And doom'd the untimely bier.
No more the swains of “Bonny Doon" Shall throng to hear his voice attune
Its “rural minstrelsy; With native humour, feeling, fraught, Descriptive truth, energic thought,
And heav'n-taught harmony.
Dire Bowl! to grace thy victim dead, Be thy dark sides with cypress spread,
Mix'd with the laurel wreath ; While I thy draught Circean shun, Nor by the chalice be undone,
That stopp'd his tuneful breath,
May thy dark form, in honour due,
And weeping dews distil; Genius-Misfortune-sacred pair! Low in the dust, fall’n in thy snare,
One grave united fill.
To fancy's eye, bedimm'd with tears, What habitant of heaven appears
In purest white arrayed; With brow sedate, but not severe, And air persuasive, hov'ring near,
My just resolve to aid?
Temp'rance whose lip of crimson hue
Of sweetly placid mien;
A sainted maid serene.
And hark! her voice of mildest tone! "Oh shun the maid of loosen'd zone,
Leave Pleasure, follow me! The muse shall then propitious here Thy prayer, and whisper in thy ear
Pure strains of melody.
“Young Health and Peace, my offspring fair, Shall to thy humble roof repair,
With lips exlialing balm';
The troubled bosom calm.
Though Pleasure, nymph of artful wile,
Abstain for deep beneath,
Lurk dire disease and death.”
WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER" ABBÉY.
WHOE’ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Oh say, of him now rests there but a name;
* After the Funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES JAMES FOX at
Friday, October 10, 1808.