For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
    This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
    Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
    Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 85





90   For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
    Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

95   Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
    "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.


100   "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
    Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
    Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
    Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due in sad array,
    Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
    Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."




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110





115  

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
    A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
    And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
    Heaven did a recompense as largely send;
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear;
    He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
    Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
    The bosom of his Father and his God.

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125

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,     Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers,     And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note,     The untaught harmony of spring; While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky     Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch     A broader browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech     O'ercanopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think     (At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud,     How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of Care;     The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air     The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring,     And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gayly-gilded trim     Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye     Such is the race of Man; And they that creep, and they that fly,     Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter thro' life's little day,     In Fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance     They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low     The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou?     A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,     No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—     We frolic while 'tis May.

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