Each from his scenes their stores alternate bring;
Blend the fair tint, or wake the vocal string:
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For Poets ever were a careless kind)

By thee dispos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole un

known,

E'en Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,

By winds and waters cast on every

shore:

When, rais'd by fate, some former Hanmer join'd

Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim

A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE,
SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

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
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,"
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell;

Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell ;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore ;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

ODE

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp' shall now be laid;

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds

May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here;
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

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,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail!
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near!
With him, sweet Bard, may Fancy die;
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

2 Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried.