And, from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

[stole,

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier toue When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

[Queen,

[spear.

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd:
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:
They would have thought who heard the strain
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound—
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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 silvan grave!

I

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 youths 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 dress'd; 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 whitening2 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!

1 The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

2 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 3, 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 4
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
'O! vales, and wild woods, (shall he say)
In yonder grave your Druid lies!'

3 Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death, at a villa in Kew-lane.

4 This can only be regarded as a poetical presage; for the 'poet's silvan grave,' was undistinguished by any exterior token till the year 1791, when a brass tablet was erected near the remains of the bard, to denote the place of his interment.

SONG.

THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKSPEARE.

YOUNG Damon of the vale is dead,

Ye lowly hamlets, moan:

A dewy turf lies o'er his head,

And at his feet a stone.

His shroud, which Death's cold damps destroy,
Of snow-white threads was made:
All mourn'd to see so sweet a boy

In earth for ever laid.

Pale pansies o'er his corpse were placed,
Which, pluck'd before their time,
Bestrew'd the boy, like him to waste,
And wither in their prime.

But will he ne'er return, whose tongue

Could tune the rural lay? Ah, no! his bell of peace is

His lips are cold as clay.

rung,

They bore him out at twilight hour,
The youth who loved so well:
Ah me! how many a true-love shower
Of kind remembrance fell.

Each maid was woe-but Lucy chief,
Her grief o'er all was tried,
Within his grave she dropp'd in grief,
And o'er her loved-one died.