O wood-hung Menaï, and ye sacred groves Of Delphi, we still venerate your names, Whose awful shades inspir'd the Druids dreams. Your recess, tho' imagin'd, Fancy loves, And thro' these long-lost scenes delighted roves: So future bards perhaps shall sing of Thames, And as they sing shall say, 'Twas there of old where mus'd illustrious Gray! By Isis' banks his tuneful lays would suit To Pindar's lofty lyre, or Sappho's Lesbian lute. Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on, And to what ills frail mankind open lies; And when fair Morn arose again to view, That blooms like Eden in his charming lays, And gilded clouds on azure hills, The fragrant bow'rs, and painted flow'rs, The very insects, that in sun-beams play, But, ah! sad Melancholy intervenes, And draws a cloud o'er all these shining scenes. "Tis her, alas! we often find, The troubler of each great unbounded mind, And leagu'd with her associate Fear, Will tremble lest the turning sphere, And sinking earth, and reeling planets run In dire disorder with the falling sun. But now, great Bard, thy life of pain is o'er ; "Tis we must weep, tho' thou shalt grieve no more, Thro' other scenes thou now dost rove, And cloth'd with gladness walk'st the courts above, And listen'st to the heav'nly choir, Hymning their God, while seraphs strike the lyre. Safe with them in those radiant climes of bliss, Thou now enjoy'st eternal happiness. ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY, BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CARLISLE. WHAT spirit's that which mounts on high, They wing their way to yonder opening sky, In glorious state through yielding clouds they sail, And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse. What avails the poet's art? What avails his magic hand? Or charm to sleep his murderous band? With Well I know thee, gentle shade! That tuneful voice, that eagle eye. Quick bring me flowers that ne'er shall fade, The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die; every honour deck his funeral bier, For he to every Grace, and every Muse was dear! The listening Dryad, with attention still, Of all the wonders of th' expanded vale, The grey-rob'd landscape stealing from the view. [56] Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing woe, O'er each low tomb he breath'd his pious strain, A lesson to the village swain, And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow! [56] This alludes to Mr. Gray's Elegy written in a Country Church. yard. |