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" Whilst Angelo shall wave the mystic rod, “ And see a new creation wait his nod; “ Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorseless pow'r, " And to my arms my absent friends restore; “ Place me amidst the group, each well-known

face, “ The sons of science, lords of human race; “ And, as oblivion sinks at his command, “ Nature shall rise more finish'd from his hand. “ Thus some magician, fraught with potent skill, Transforms and moulds each vary'd mass at will;

Calls animated forms of wond'rous birth, “ Cadmean offspring, from the teeming earth, “ Uncears the pond'rous tombs, the realms of night, “ And calls their cold inhabitants to light; so Or, as he traverses a dreary scene, “ Bids ev'ry sweet of nature there convene; “ Huge mountains skirted round with wavy woods, “ The shrub-deck'd lawns, and silver-sprinkled

floods, “ Whilst flow'rets spring around the smiling land, And follow on the traces of his wand.

“Such prospects, lovely Auburn! then, be thine; And what thou canst of bliss impart be mine: Amid thy humble shades, in tranquil ease, - Grant me to pass the remnant of my days,

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" Unfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain,

My raptur'd muse shall pour her noblest strain, “ Within her native bow'rs the notes prolong,

And, grateful, meditate her latest song.

Thus, as adown the slope of life I bend, And move, resign'd, to meet my latter end, “Each worldly wish, each worldly care represt, “ A self-approving heart alone possest, « Content, to bounteous heav'n I'll leave the rest." Thus spoke the bard: but not one friendly

pow'r, With nod attentive, crown’d the parting hour; No eastern meteor glar'd beneath the sky, No dextral omen; Nature heav'd a sigh Prophetic of the dire impending blow, The presage

of her loss, and Britain's woe. Already portion'd, unrelenting Fate Had made a pause upon the number'd date; Behind, stood Death, too horrible for sight, In darkness clad, expectant, prun’d for flight; Pleas’d at the word, the shapeless monster sped, On eager message, to the humble shed, Where, wrapt by soft poetic visions round, Sweet slumbring, Fancy's darling son he found. At his approach the silken-pinion'd train, Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain

Which late they fann'd: now other scenes than

dales Of woody pride, succeed, or flow'ry vales : As when a sudden tempest veils the sky, Before serene, and streaming lightnings fly; The prospect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll, Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole; Terrific horrors all the void invest, Whilst the arch-spectre issues forth confest. The bard beholds him beckon to the tomb Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb; In vain attempts to fly; th’impassive air Retards his steps, and yields him to despair ; He feels a gripe that thrills through ev'ry vein, And panting struggles in the fatal chain. Here paus'd the fell destroyer to survey The pride, the boast of man, his destin'd prey; Prepar'd to strike, he pois'd aloft the dart, And plung'd the steel in virtue's bleeding heart, Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound, And leave on Nature's face a grisly wound; A wound enrolld among Britannia's woes, That

ages yet to follow cannot close. Oh, Goldsmith! how shall sorrow now essay To murmur out her slow incondite lay? In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour That yielded thee to unrelenting pow'r;

Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish'd strain? Much honour'd bard! if

my

untutor'd verse Could pay a tribute worthy of thy hearse, With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise, And buldly strew the never-fading bays. But, ah! with thee my guardian genius fled, And pillow'd in thy tomb his silent head : Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, And pensive stalks the solitary plains; Rich in her sorrows, honours without art, She

pays in tears, redundant from the heart. And

say, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd dust To heap the graven pile, or laureld bust; Since by thy hands already rais'd on high We see a fabric tow'ring to the sky; Where, hand in hand with time, the sacred lore Shall travel on till Nature is no more?

POEMS

BY

DR. GOLDSMITH.

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