Learning and wit alike have bow'd the knee,
And hermits left their cells to gaze on thee!
On thee shall charm'd remembrance love to reft;
Come every mufe! and strive to praise him beft!
For, ah! my lute the tribute cannot pay,
And the big tear has blotted out the lay!
Ye skilful nine, who fhall the chaplet weave?
Hail his bright day!--nor mourn his tranquil eve!
Your Garrick hail!--he breathes, he lives again,
Lives in the thought, and breathes in every strain!
Triumphant fame enrols his acts on high,
And tells the mourner---Garrick cannot die!
FIRST PUBLISHED BY MR. PERCY.
T was a Friar of Orders Gray
Walk'd forth to tell his beads;
And he met with a lady fair
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
And how fhould I know your true-love
From any other one?
O, by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his fandal fhoon.
But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were fo fair to view;
His flaxen locks that fweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.
O Lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green-grafs turf,
And at his heels a ftone.
Within thefe holy cloyfters long
He languifh'd and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'playning of her pride.
Here bore him barefac'd on his bier,
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.
And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!
And didft thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of flore!
O weep not, Lady, weep not fo;
Some ghoftly comfort feek:
Let not vain forrows rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.
O do not, do not, holy Friar,]
My forrow now reprove;
For I have loft the sweetest youth,
That e'er won lady's love.
And now, alas! for thy fad lofs, ]
I'll e'ermore weep and figh:
For thee I only wish'd to live,
For thee I wish to die.
Weep no more, Lady, weep no more,
Thy forrow is in vain:
For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow again.
Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then fhould forrow laft?
Since grief but aggravates thy lofs,
Grieve not for what is paft.
O fay not fo, thou holy Friar,
I pray thee fay not fo:
For fince my true-love dy'd for me,
'Tis meet my tears fhould flow.
And will he never come again?
Will he ne'er come again?
Ah! no, he's dead, and laid in his grave
For ever to remain.
His cheek was redder than the rofe;
The comelieft youth was he!--
But he is dead, and laid in his grave:
Alas, and woe is me!
Sigh no more, Lady, figh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on fea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.
Hadft thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee fad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,
Since fummer trees were leafy.
Now fay not fo, thou holy Friar,
I pray thee fay not fo:
My love he had the trueft heart
O he was ever true!
And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth?
And didft thou die for me?
Then farewel home! for evermore
A pilgrim I will be.
But first upon my true love's grave,
My weary limbs I'll lay,
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grafs turf
That wraps his breathless clay.
Yet ftay, fair Lady, reft a-while-
Beneath this cloyster wall:
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
And drizzly rain doth fall.
O stay me not, thou holy Friar!
O ftay me not, I pray!
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away.
Yet ftay, fair Lady, turn again,
And dry thofe pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.
Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,
Thefe holy weeds I fought.; And here amid thefe lonely walls To end my days I thought.
But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet paft away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.
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