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MID these mould’ring walls, this marble round,

Where slept the Heroes of the Julian name, Say, shall we linger still in thought profound,

And meditate the mournful paths to fame?

What though no cypress shades, in funeral rows,

No sculptur’d urns, the last records of Fate, O’er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs,

Or breathe in storied emblems of the great ;

Yet not with heedless eye will we survey

The scene though chang'd, nor negligently tread; These variegated walks, however

gay,
Were once the silent mansions of the dead.

• It is now a garden belonging to Marchefe di Corré.

In every shrub, in every fow'ret's bloom

That paints with different hues yon smiling plain, Some Hero's alhes issue from the tomb,

And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not, as the Sages say,

But shifts to other forms the pliant mass, When the free spirit quits its cumbrous clay,

And sees, beneath, the rolling Planets pass.

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Perhaps, my Villiers, for I sing to Thee,

Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives, In yon

fair scion of Apollo's tree The sacred duft of young Marcellus lives.

Pluck not the leaf – 'twere sacrilege to wound

Th’ideal memory of so sweet a shade; In these sad seats an early grave he found,

And the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.

Witness thou Field of Mars, that oft hadst known

His youthful triumphs in the mimic war,
Thou heardst the heart-felt universal groan

When o'er thy bosom rolld the funeral car.
• He is said to be the first person buried in this monument,
« Quantos ille virûm magnam Mavortis ad urbem
Campus aget gemitus!

Witness

Witness d thou Tuscan stream, where oft he glow'd

In sportive strugglings with th' opposing wave, Fast by the recent tomb thy waters flowd

While wept the wise, the virtuous, and the brave.

O lost too soon !- yet why lament a fate

By thousands envied, and by Heaven approv'd. Rare is the boon to those of longer date

To live, to die, admir'd, esteemid, belov'd.

Weak are our judgments, and our passions warm,

And Nowly dawns the radiant morn of truth, Our expectations hastily we form,

And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we satiate on th' applause we pay

To rising Merit, and resume the Crown; Full many a blooming genius, snatch'd away,

Has fallen lamented who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the task, O Villiers, to sustain

Th' important burthen of an early fame;
Each added day some added worth to gain,
Prevent each wish, and answer

Vel quæ, Tyberine, videbis
Funera, cum tumulum præterlabere recentem!

every claim.

VIRG.

Be

Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days !

But remember, whatsoe'er thou art, The most exalted breath of human praise

To please indeed muft echo from the heart.

Though thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wise,

By all, like him, admir’d, esteemid, belov'd, 'Tis from within alone true Fame can rife,

The only happy is the Self-approv'd.

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E L EGY III.

To the Right Honourable
George Simon Harcourt, Visc. Newnham.

Written at Rome, 1756.

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YES

ES, noble Youth, 'tis true; the softer arts,

The sweetly-sounding string, and pencil's pow'r, Have warm’d to rapture even heroic hearts,

And taught the rude to wonder, and adore.

For

For Beauty charms us, whether she appears

In blended colours; or to foothing sound Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears

In yonder swelling dome's harmonious round.

All, all she charms; but not alike to all

'Tis given to revel in her blissful bower ; Coercive ties, and Reason's powerful call

Bid some but taste the sweets, which fome devour.

When Nature govern'd, and when Man was young,

Perhaps at will th' untutord Savage rov'd, Where waters murmur'd, and where clusters hung

He fed, and Nept beneath the shade he lov'd.

But since the Sage's more fagacious mind,

By Heaven's permission, or by Heaven's command, To polish'd states has social laws assign'd,

And general good on partial duties plann'd,

Not for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend

As heedless Chance, or wanton Choice ordain; On various stations various tasks attend,

And Men are born to trifle or to reign.

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