To fair Fidele's DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 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, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, 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, The tender thought on thee shall dwell: Each lonely scene shall thee restore, And mourned, till pity's self be dead. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave! In yon deep bed of whispering reeds, Then maids and youths shall linger here, 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, But thou who own'st that earthly bed, Yet lives there one whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? But thou lorn stream, whose sullen tide And see the fairy valleys fade, Dun night has veiled the solemn view! The genial meads, assigned to bless Long, long thy stone and pointed clay GRAY. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homewards plòds his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from youder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, |