And thro' these long-lost scenes delighted roves: So future bards perhaps shall sing of Thames, And as they sing shall say, "Twas there of old where mus'd illustrious Gray ! By Isis' banks his tuneful lays would suit To Pindar's lofty lyre, or Sappho's Lesbian lute. Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on, To scorn the great, and love the wise and good; And to what ills frail mankind open lies; And when fair Morn arose again to view, That blooms like Eden in his charming lays, And gilded clouds on azure hills, The fragrant bow'rs, and painted flow'rs, The very insects, that in sun-beams play, Turn useful monitors in his grave moral lay. But, ah! sad Melancholy intervenes, And draws a cloud o'er all these shining scenes. The troubler of each great unbounded mind, Will tremble lest the turning sphere, But now, great Bard, thy life of pain is o'er; 'Tis we must weep, tho' thou shalt grieve no more. Thro' other scenes thou now dost rove, And cloth'd with gladness walk'st the courts above, And listen'st to the heav'nly choir, Hymning their God, while seraphs strike the lyre. Safe with them in those radiant climes of bliss, Thou now enjoy'st eternal happiness. ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY, BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CARLISLE. WHAT spirit's that which mounts on high, They wing their way to yonder opening sky, In glorious state through yielding clouds they sail, And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse. What avails the poet's art? What avails his magic hand? Or charm to sleep his murderous band? That tuneful voice, that eagle eye.— Quick bring me flowers that ne'er shall fade, With every honour deck his funeral bier, For he to every Grace, and every Muse was dear! The listening Dryad, with attention still, On tiptoe oft would near the poet steal, To hear him sing upon the lonely hill Of all the wonders of th' expanded vale, The distant hamlet, and the winding stream, The steeple shaded by the friendly yew, Sunk in the wood the sun's departing gleam, The grey-rob'd landscape stealing from the view. [56] Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing woe, O'er each low tomb he breath'd his pious strain, A lesson to the village swain, And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow !— [57] But soon with bolder note, and wilder flight, O'er the loud strings his rapid hand would run : Mars hath lit his torch of war, Ranks of heroes fill the sight! Hark! the carnage is begun! [56] This alludes to Mr. Gray's Elegy written in a Country Church-yard. [57] The Bard, a Pindaric Ode. And see the furies through the fiery air O'er Cambria's frighten'd land the screams of horror bear! . [58] Now led by playful Fancy's hand Here roses paint the crimson way, No setting sun, eternal May, Wild as the priestess of the Thracian fane, The heaving down his thrilling joys confest, [59] O, guardian angel of our early day, Henry, thy darling plant must bloom no more! [58] The Progress of Poetry, a Pindaric Ode. [59] Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College. |