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“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
“ Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; “ Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
" Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
“ One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, ac
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; “ Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
“ Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
“ The next, with dirges due in sad array, “ Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him
66 borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, “ Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
THE EPITAPH. " Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
“ A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; « Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
“ And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
“ Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: " He gave to mis’ry all he had, a tear, “ He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd)
« No farther seek his merits to disclose,
“ Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, “ (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
“ The bosom of his father and his God."
THE EARL OF WARWICK,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.
If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath staid,
Can I forget the dismal night, that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave?
How silent did his old companions tread,
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, (Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown) Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form'd the hallow'd mould below:
Proud names who once the reins of empire held;
In what new region, to the just assign'd, What new employments please th’ unbody'd mind ? A winged virtue thro' th’ æthereal sky, From world to world unweary'd does he fly, Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the Dragon fell? Or mix'd with milder cherubim to glow In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind; A task well suited to thy gentle mind? o, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! When age misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure c arms,
In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
Thou hill, whose brow the antique structure grace, Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race, Why, once so lov’d, whene'er thy bow'r appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air!