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The ev'ning warble Philomela made,
The echoing forest, and the whisp'ring shade,
The winding brook, the bleat of brute content,
And the blithe voice that “ whistled as it went."
These shall no longer charm the ploughman's care,
But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair.
GOLDSMITH, adieu! the “ book-learn'd priest”

for thee
Shall now in vain possess his festive glee,
The oft-heard jest in vain he shall reveal,
For now, alas ! the jest he cannot feel :
But ruddy damsels o'er thy tomb shall bend,
And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend;
The milk-maid shall reject the shepherd's song,
And cease to carol as she toils along;
All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day
When from her fields their pride was snatch'd

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 :

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For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain,
To all that wander, sorrow, or complain :
Dear to the learned, to the simple dear,
For daily blessings mark'd thy virtuous year;
The rich receiv'd a moral from thy head,
And from thy heart the stranger found a bed :
Distress came always smiling from thy door;
For God had made thee agent to the poor;
Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan,
Το grace
at once the

poet

and the man.

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TEARS OF THE MUSES.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH.

“ Around his tomb let Worth, let Genius weep,
“ But hear his death, ye dunces, hear, and sleep!”

When vulgar spirits of the rich and great
Submit unwilling to the stroke of fate,
No bosoms vibrate with the falling blow,
No virtues weep the friend of man laid low;
Ere the clos’d grave concludes the solemn scene,
Past is their fame, as tho' they ne'er had been.

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,

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With Io Pæans rend the vaulted skies,
For hated Genius, hated Virtue dies.
Unaw'd, ye now may dare th’exploring light,
Nor seek the deep recesses of the night;
Unlash'd, your malice now may spend its rage,
Nor dread the critic's nor the poet's page.

But whither shall the Virtues now retreat ?
Will they on earth again resume their seat?
Thou melting fair, whose kindly-listning ear
(And eye for ever moisten'd with a tear)
Does to Grief's voice attend in piteous mood,
And “ feel the luxury of doing good,"
To what protecting bosom wilt thou fly,
First-born of Jove, and best-lov'd Charity ?
And thou, Simplicity, untutor'd maid,
In modest garb of purest white array'd,
Who know'st not artifice, or mean disguise,
The ray of truth emaning from thine eyes ;
Forlorn, lost maid ! ah! well with drooping head,
With tear unceasing, may'st thou mourn the dead!
Thy fav’rite gone, no shelt'ring breast remains
To stay thy flight, detain thee on our plains,
Vain now thy charms, untaught and unadorn'd,
For tawdry art succeeds, whilst thou art scorn’d.
Unhappy Britain ! thou too art undone,
Thou weep?st the death of thy last virtuous son.

Who now shall rouse thy senatorial band,
When desolation spreads around the land?
When her deserting, faithless children fly
To climes remote, beneath the western sky;
E'en now they plough their sad, long watry way,
And leave her realm to slav'ry and decay.
Ill-fated wretches, who forsake a home,
Where

peace

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,

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