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To fair Fidele's

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

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 withered 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 gathered flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell:

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;

And mourned, till pity's self be dead.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.

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 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 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!

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-crowned 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 veiled the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads, assigned 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,
Oh! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies.

GRAY.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homewards plòds his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from youder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise.

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