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By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d,
By strangers honor'd, and by strangers mourn’d
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps that mourn a year;
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and the public show
What tho’ no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face
What tho’ no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, That once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov’d, how honor’d once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot: A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart

Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The muse forgot, and thou be lov’d no more.

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Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite
Steals my senses, shuts my sight?
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath 2
Tell me, my soul, can this be death 2

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring !
Lend, lend your wings I mount' I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting



SEE the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread The very tombs now vanish’d like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on Nations spoil'd, 5 Where mix’d with Slaves the groaning Martyr toil'd: Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods, Now drain’d a distant country of her Floods: Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride survey, Statues of Men, scarce less alive than they ! 10 Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame, 15 Some bury'd marble half preserves a name: That Name the Learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd; she found it vain to trust The faithless Column and the crumbling Bust: 20 Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shote, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more

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Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design,
And all her Triumphs shrink into a Coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, 25
Beneath her palm here sad Judaea weeps.
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates thro’ the piece is roll’d,
And little Eagles wave their wings in gold. 30
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame, -
Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name :
In one short view subjected to our eye
Gods, Emp’rors, Heroes, Sages, Beauties, lie.
With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, 35
Th’ inscription value, but the rust adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years!'
To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes,
One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. 40
Poor Vadius long with learned spleen devour’d,
Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd :
And Curio, restless by the Fair-one’s side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the Vanity, the Learning thine : 45
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome’s glories shine;
Her Gods, and godlike Heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom a-new.
Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage : 50
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And Art reflected images to Art,

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Oh when shall Britain, concious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame * In living medals see her wars enroll’d, 55 And vanquish’d realms supply recording gold Here, rising bold, the Patriot's honest face; There Warriors frowning in historic brass: Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; 60. Or in fair series laurell’d Bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy Chaggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine; With aspect open shall erect his head, 65 And round the orb in lasting notes be read,

“statesman, yet friend to Truth of soul sincere,

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While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes:

The Sun, next those the fairest light, .
Thus from the Ocean first did rise :

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