There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the summer - ray Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, Or winter rises in the blackening east; Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where he vital breathes there must be joy. And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in him, in light ineffable; Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise. O DE ON THE DEATH OF M. THOMSON. BY M. COLLIN S.. The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames near Richmond. I. 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! I I. In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds His airy harp (1) shall now be laid, (1) The harp of Eolus, of which see a description in the Casi of Indolence. That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, I I I. Then maids and youths shall linger here, To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell. I V. 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! V. And oft as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening (1) spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep. V I. But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed, (1) Richmond Church, Or tears, which Love and Pity shed That mourn beneath the gliding sail! V I I. Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,' And Joy desert the blooming year. VIII. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide I X. And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! X. The genial meads assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom, Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. |