And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, And hamlets brown, and dim discovered spires, The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy favourite name! DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's 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, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, The redbreast oft at evening hours, When howling winds and beating rain, Each lonely scene shall thee restore, ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave! In yon deep bed of whispering reeds, Then maids and youths shall linger here, 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, But thou who own'st that earthly bed, Or tears which love and pity shed, Yet lives there one whose heedless eye 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! The genial meads, assigned to bless Long, long thy stone and pointed clay Grap. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew trees 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. |