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She spoke, she dy'd, her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.
Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept ? The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
At once his bosom swell:
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!
The varging crimson fled,
She saw her husband dead.
Convey'd by trembling swains,
For ever he remains.
Oft at this grave, the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen; With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green : But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thcu art,
This hallow'd spot forbear; Remember Colin's dreadful fate, And fear to meet him there.
TO THE EARL OF WARWICK,
DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.
Ir, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
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, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of
kings! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir ; The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd ; And the last words that dust to dust convey'd! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. Oh, gone for ever ; take this long adieu ; And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague. To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine ;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
In what new region, to the just assign'd, What new employments please th’ unbody'd mind? A winged Virtue, through th' etherial sky, From world to world unweary'd does he fly? Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battl'd, 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,
That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,
grace, Rear’d by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears !
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
From other hills, however Fortune frown'd; ,
These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage convey'd, Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame, Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit Aies, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues : each other's boast ! farewell, Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.