In memory of a * private family in WORCESTERSHIRE.

ROM a lone tow'r with rev'rend ivy crown'd,

FRO

The pealing bell awak'd a tender figh; Still, as the village caught the waving found, A fwelling tear diftream'd from ev'ry eye.

So droop'd, I ween, each BRITON's breast of old, When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled; For fighing as the mournful accent roll'd,

Our hope, they cry'd, our kind fupport, is dead!

'Twas good PALEMON-near a shaded pool,

A groupe
of ancient elms umbrageous rofe;
The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene, for their asylum, chofe.

A few small spires, to Gothic fancy fair,

Amid the fhades emerging, ftruck the view 'Twas here his youth refpir'd its earliest air; 'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu.

* The penns of HARBOROUGH; a place whofe name in the SAXON language, alludes to an arm. And there is a tradition that there was a battle fought, on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the BRITONS and the ROMANS.

One favour'd fon engag'd his tenderest care;
One pious youth his whole affection crown'd:
In his
young breast the virtues fprung fo fair,

Such charms difplay'd, such sweets diffus'd around.

But whilst gay transport in his face appears,
A noxious vapour clogs the poifon'd sky;
Blafts the fair crop-the fire is drown'd in tears,
And, fcarce furviving, fees his CYNTHIo die!

O'er the pale corfe we faw him gently bend;
Heart-chill'd with grief-my thread, he cry'd, is fpun!
"If heav'n had meant I fhou'd my life extend,
Heav'n had preferv'd my life's fupport, my fon.

Snatch'd in thy prime! alas the stroke were mild,
Had my frail form obey'd the fates' decree!
Bleft were my lot, O CYNTHIO! O my child!
Had heav'n fo pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee.”

Five fleepless nights he ftem'd this tide of woes;
Five irksome funs he saw, thro' tears, forlorn!
On his pale corse the fixth fad morning rose;

From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.

'Twas on those * downs, by Roman hosts annoy'd, Fought our bold fathers; ruftic, unrefin'd! Freedom's plain fons, in martial cares employ'd! They ting'd their bodies, but unmask'd their mind.

HARBOROUGH Downs.

'Twas

'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race, Of milder, merit, fix'd their calm retreat;

War's deadly crimson had forfook the place,

And freedom fondly lov'd the chosen seat.

No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breast,

To fwell with empty founds a spotless name; If foft'ring fkies, the fun, the show'r were blest, Their bounty spread; their field's extent the fame.

Those fields, profufe of raiment, food, and fire,
They scorn'd to leffen, careless to extend;
Bade luxury, to lavish courts aspire,
And avarice, to city-breasts descend,

None, to a virgin's mind, prefer'd her dow'r;
To fire with vicious hopes a modest heir:
The fire, in place of titles, wealth, or pow'r,
Affign'd him virtue; and his lot was fair.

They spoke of fortune, as fome doubtful dame,
That fway'd the natives of a distant sphere;
From lucre's vagrant fons had learnt her fame,
But never wish'd to place her banners here.

Here youth's free fpirit, innocently gay,

Enjoy'd the most that innocence can give;

Those wholesome fweets, that border virtue's way; Those cooling fruits, that we may taste and live.

Their board no ftrange ambiguous viand bore;
From their own streams their choicer fare they drew,
To lure the fcaly glutton to the shore,

The fole deceit their artless bofom knew!

Sincere themselves, ah too secure to find

The common bofom, like their own, fincere! 'Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind ; 'Tis her own poifon bids the viper fear.

Sketch'd on the lattice of th' adjacent fane,
Their fuppliant busts implore the reader's pray'r;
Ah gentle fouls! enjoy your blissful reign,

And let frail mortals claim your guardian care.

For fure, to blissful realms the fouls are flown,
That never flatter'd, injur'd, cenfur'd, ftrove;
The friends of fcience! mufic, all their own;
Mufic, the voice of virtue and of love!

The journeying peasant, thro' the secret shade, Heard their foft lyres engage his lift'ning ear; And haply deem'd some courteous angel play'd; No angel play'd-but might with transport hear.

For these the founds that chase unholy strife!
Solve envy's charm, ambition's wretch release!
Raife him to fpurn the radiant ills of life;
To pity pomp, to be content with peace.

Farewel,

Farewel, pure fpirits! vain the praise we give, The praise you fought from lips angelic flows; Farewel! the virtues which deserve to live,

Deferve an ampler blifs than life beftows.

Laft of his race, PALEMON, now no more
The modest merit of his line display'd;
Then pious HOUGH VIGORNIA'S mitre wore→→
Soft fleep the duft of each deserving shade.