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ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.

N yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing

wave;

The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,

And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest.

And oft, as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail ?
Or tears which love and pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see the fairy valleys fade;

Dun night has veiled the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu !

Thy genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom,

There hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:

66

"O vales and wildwoods," shall he say,

66

'In yonder grave your Druid lies!"

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

O fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall
bring

Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
But female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gathered flowers
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempest shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chase upon the plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved till life can charm no more,
And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.
SCENE, The desert. TIME, Midday.

N silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The driver Hassan with his camels

past:

One cruse of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contained a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,

To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gained the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue;
Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the
view!

With desperate sorrow wild, the affrighted man Thrice sighed, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:

"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,

When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

"Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind, The thirst, or pinching hunger, that I find! Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,

When fails this cruse, his unrelenting rage? Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign; Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine ?

“Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share! Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,

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