Swifter than Dædalus' too venturous boy,
I pass the Bosphorus' resounding strand,
A bird of song, o'er stormy Syrtes fly,
And view the frozen Hyperborean land.
Colchians, and Dacians, knowing to destroy
By semblant fear, the eager Marsian band
And far Geloni know me; fierce in war,
The Iberian views me, and who drinks the Rhone. Be from my empty funeral, dirges far,
Banish base grief and the complaining groan :
Restrain your clamour, be the funeral car
And needless trophies hence, Fame shall protect her
ON MARY, THE WIFE OF WILLIAM HAYWARD, ESQ.
HERE, Stranger! Hayward lies.-Ask you her worth?
Go count the sighs which from her death had birth!
Seek of her husband, of her children seek,
Why changes as they pass each healthful cheek?
Seek of the poor, why still upon her grave
They pay the kindly tears her pity gave?
And faltering they will say,-In age, in youth,
Her life was usefulness, her speech was truth;
Her heart to all that breathed expanded wide;
Her faith to Heaven ascended;-and she died.
COME, all ye shepherds, come around,
My hapless state survey;
Ye woods, ye hills, my grief resound,
And echo back the mournful lay.
Myra, the softest sweetest fair,
That ever grac❜d the plains,
No longer now regards my care,
No longer listens to my strains.
In vain on ev'ry muse I call
Fit numbers to inspire;
My verse, alas! is useless all,
Or serves but to increase my fire.
In vain my eyes, with weeping drown'd, The soul-felt anguish tell;
No pity in that breast is found,
Where pity always lov'd to dwell.
Then shepherds, haste! my last, last bed, My bridal bed prepare;
Hide, hide, thou earth my wretched head, And free me from this black despair.
I come, ye worms, my flesh to give;
Feast, feast, insatiate crew;
Sure Myra will at least believe,
That her scorn'd swain to death was true.
Yet, oh ye pow'rs! who plac'd on high,
Our inmost wishes see,
Bless the dear maid, for whom I die!
And may she never love like me!
SHOULD the rude wind too roughly blow,
Then would yon gem of living snow
Droop o'er its parent bed!
And tho' the mildest breeze should play,
Nor evening's dew, nor morning's ray,
Could raise its weeping head!
Ah! thus by dark suspicion's breath,
The rose of love was chilled to death,
Never to blossom more!
In vain did hope contend with fears,
Nor sweetest smiles, nor softest tears,
Could e'er that rose restore.
WRITTEN IN THE VICINITY. 1781.
ILLUSTRIOUS Scene! tho' EGYPT pour
Her marbles, and the PARIAN shore,
To swell thy antient pride;
Still ow'st thou to the lyre of taste,
And sculpture's charms, that, o'er the waste,
Thy throne shall time deride!
How priz'd thy roofs, with ivy strown!
Thy broken arches! columns, prone!
Thy coins, remov'd from day!
These bear ZENOBIA'S godlike face,
And, where his genius rul'd, we trace
The critic's verdant bay!
Fir'd at LONGINUS' letter'd fame,
Th' enthusiast feels the Attic flame
Which lights this classic pile:
To snatch one relic of his art,
Nor, without beauty's smile, depart,
He braves ARABIAN guile!
For lo! amid the cypress grove,
Where stood a temple rear'd to Love,
A tented town appears!
And, where those useless ducts convey'd
The stream, to feed the cool cascade,
A line of hostile spears!
Yet, scite renown'd! from those, who seek
Thy glory, tho' with pennons weak,
The lurking pest with-hold:
With mercy tinge the ARAB's creed,
That pilgrims oft may wake the reed,
Whence WOOD thy wonders told !
LEFT ON THE BROKEN HARPSICHORD OF A
DECEASED SISTER. 1769.
WHY sleep the sounds which struck my listening ear,
When angels lean'd, in Fancy's eye, to hear
A new Cecilia touch thy trembling strings,
And warble praises of the King of kings?
Alas! no more shall music wake thy frame,
Cold are those hands that gave thy music fame!
Mute is that voice, which charm'd the enraptur'd throng,
And match'd thy harmony with sacred song!
Nor thou, neglected instrument! repine,-
No other touch could make thy notes divine:
Emblem of her, whose loss the Nine deplore,
The Muse shall claim thee, but no Muse restore!
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