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The ev'ning warble Philomela made,
away ; And e'en the matron of the cressy lake, In piteous plight, her palsy'd head shall shake, While all adown the furrows of her face Slow shall the ling’ring tears each other trace.
And oh, my child ! severer woes remain To all the houseless and unshelter'd train : Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest, And heap fresh anguish on the beggar's breast :
For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain,
and the man.
TEARS OF THE MUSES.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
“ Around his tomb let Worth, let Genius weep,
When vulgar spirits of the rich and great
But when each worth that animates our frame, When genius, warm'd with ev'ry social aim, The glowing heart, and the dilated mind, “ Exulting in the good of all mankind;" When these, expiring, leave the body's clay, To moulder in its kindred dust away, The pious tears from ev'ry eye that flow, The gen’ral grief, proclaim the gen’ral woe. Where now, blest bard, shall worth like thine
be found ? Where now the breast where virtues so abound? Of Pæan's sons, doth one possess thy fire ? Doth love of truth one bosom yet inspire ? Say, now thy soul has gain'd its native heav'n, To whom is thy inspiring mantle giv'n? Or is no fellow-prophet left behind, To catch the spirit that infus'd thy mind? Shall Dulness raise once more her hated head, And while Cimmerian glooms around her spread Exulting see, restor'd, her reign of lead?
Ye puny bards, who sicken at the ray That genius sheds in its meridian day; Ye bardlings, who contrive, with wond'rous pains, To scribble still, without the gift of brains ! Ye sons of earth, who loathe, with ranc'rous hate, The godlike worth you cannot imitate,
With Io Pæans rend the vaulted skies,
But whither shall the Virtues now retreat ?
Who now shall rouse thy senatorial band,
and plenty crown your hours, to roam In deadly swamps and forests that display An endless tract, impervious to the day; Where wintry blasts scowl dreadful o'er the plain, And summer scorches with a fiery reign ; Where swarthy Indianstake their treach'rous stands, Their bows and painted arrows in their hands; From them no warning prompts to shun the wound, But unseen death for ever hovers round. Ah, wretches ! often shall ye wish to gain Those careless hours ye've lost, but wish in vain; In beechen shades, on margins green to play No more, but heartless toil through the long day. Those harmless sports which ye have left behind, Those hearty joys that speak the vacant mind, Those simple scenes in which your hours were spent, Your aukward jests, and bursts of merriment; Your college fires, oft when " the sun was set,” With eager glee, the village circle met,