No Crescent here displays its baneful horns; 2 Written about the time of Captain Grenville's death. IN MEMORY OF A PRIVATE FAMILY' IN WORCESTERSHIRE. FROM a lone tow'r with reverend ivy crown'd, 'Our hope,' they cry'd,' our kind support, is dead!' "Twas good Palemon!-Near a shaded pool, A group of ancient elms umbrageous rose; The flocking rooks, by Instinct's native rule, This peaceful scene for their asylum chose. A few small spires, to gothic fancy fair, Amid the shades emerging struck the view; 'Twas here his youth respir'd its earliest air; 'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu. One favour'd son engag'd his tenderest care; One pious youth his whole affection crown'd; In his young breast the virtues sprung so fair, Such charms display'd, such sweets diffus'd around. But whilst gay transport in his face appears, A noxious vapour clogs the poison'd sky, Blasts the fair crop-the sire is drown'd in tears, And, scarce surviving, sees his Cynthio die! : 1 The Penns of Harborough; a place whose name in the Saxon language alludes to an army and there is a tradition that there was a battle fought on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the Britons and the Romans. O'er the pale corse we saw him gently bend; Heart-chill'd with grief- My thread,' he cry'd, ' is spun! If Heav'n had meant I should my life extend, Heav'n had preserv'd my life's support, my son. Snatch'd in thy prime! alas, the stroke were mild, Had my frail form obey'd the Fates' decree! Bless'd were my lot, O Cynthio! O my child! Had Heav'n so pleas'd, and I had died for thee.' Five sleepless nights he stemm'd this tide of woes; Five irksome suns he saw, through tears, forlorn! On his pale corse the sixth sad morning rose; From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne 'Twas on those downs, by Roman hosts annoy'd, Fought our bold fathers, rustic, unrefin'd! Freedom's plain sons, in martial cares employ'd! They ting'd their bodies, but unmask'd their mind. 'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race, sanie. Those fields, profuse of raiment, food, and fire, They scorn'd to lessen, careless to extend; 2 Harborough Dowus. None to a virgin's mind preferr'd her dow'r, They spoke of Fortune as some doubtful dame, Enjoy'd the most that Innocence can give ; Those wholesome sweets that border Virtue's way; Those cooling fruits, that we may taste and live. Their board no strange ambiguous viand bore; From their own streams their choicer fare they To lure the scaly glutton to the shore, The sole deceit their artless bosom knew! [drew; Sincere themselves, ah! too secure to find Their suppliant busts implore the reader's pray'r: The journeying peasant, through the secret shade Heard their soft lyres engage his listening ear, And haply deem'd some courteous angel play'd; No angel play'd-but might with transport hear. For these the sounds that chase unholy Strife! Solve Envy's charm, Ambition's wretch release! Raise him to spurn the radiant ills of life, To pity pomp, to be content with peace. Farewell, pure spirits! vain the praise we give, The praise you sought from lips angelic flows; Farewell! the virtues which deserve to live Deserve an ampler bliss than life bestows. Last of his race, Palemon, now no more The modest merit of his line display'd; Then pious Hough Vigornia's mitre woreSoft sleep the dust of each deserving shade. HE SUGGESTS THE ADVANTAGES OF BIRTH TO A PERSON OF MERIT, AND THE FOLLY OF A SUPERCILIOUSNESS THAT IS BUILT UPON THAT SOLE FOUNDATION. WHEN genius, grac'd with lineal splendour, glows, Pity the sandal'd swain, the shepherd's boy; |