Along with Pleasure close ally'd, And often, by the murm'ring rill, CUNNINGHAM, ELEGY, ON A PILE OF RUINS. IN the full profpect yonder hill commands, O'er foreft, fields, and vernal-coated plains, Half bury'd there lie many a broken buft, The rivulets, oft' frighted at the found Of fragments tumbling from the tow'rs on high, Where rev'rend fhrines in Gothic grandeur ftood, The nettle or the noxious nightshade fpreads; And afhlings, wafted from the neighb'ring wood, Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads. There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown, Her attitude compos'd, and afpe&t sweet, Sits mufing on a monumental stone, And points to the memento at her feet. Soon as fage Ev'ning check'd Day's funny pride, I left the mantling fhade in moral mood, And, seated by the maid's fequefter'd fide, gh, as the mould'ring monuments I view'd. Inexorably calm, with filent pace, Here time has pafs'd-What ruin marks his way ! In vain, and Melody her fong fublime; Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not mov'd to spare, The tott'ring towr's with twisted ivy ty'd. How folemn is the cell, o'ergrown with mofs, That terminates the view yon' cloister'd way! In the crush'd wall a time-corroded cross, Religion like, ftands mould'ring in decay. Where the mild fun through faint-encypher'd glafs, Illum'd with mellow light you dusky aisle, Many rapt hours might Meditation pafs, Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the Pile. And Piety, with myftic-meaning beads, Bowing to faints on ev'ry fide inurn'd, Trod oft' the folitary path that leads Where now the facred altar lies o'erturn'd! Thro' the grey grove, between thofe with'ring trees, 'Mongft a rude group of monuments, appears A marble-imag'd matron on her knees, Half-wafted, like a Niobe, in tears: Low level'd in the duft her darling's laid! Death pity'd nor the pride of youthful bloom; Nor could maternal piety diffuade Or foften the fell tyrant of the tomb. The relics of a mitred faint may reft Where mould'ring in the niche his ftatue ftands, Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom, Ah what avails that o'er the vasal-plain Tho' to the clouds his caftle feem'd to climb, Tho' deem'd invincible, the conq'ror Time Where the light lyre gave many a foft'ning found, Ravens and rooks, the birds of Difcord, dwell; And where Society fat fweetly crown'd Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell. The lizard and the lazy lurking bat Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room, Where the fage matron and her maidens fat, The trav❜ller is bewilder'd on a waste ; His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they muft; Can the deep Statefman, fkill'd in great defign, No.-Tho' the palace bar her golden gate, What then avails, Ambition's wide ftretch'd wing, The Schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty's bloom? The crape-clad hermit, and the rich rob'd king, Levell'd, lie mix'd promifc'ous in the tomb. The Macedonian monarch, wife and good, Bad, when the Morning's rofy reign began, Courtiers fhould call, as round his couch they stood, "Philip remember thou'rt no more than man! "Tho' Glory fpread thy name from pole to pole; "Tho' thou art merciful, and brave, and juft; "" Philip! reflect thou'rt pofting to the goal "Where mortals mix in undiftinguish'd duft !" So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd, (Egypt and Syria's wide domains fubdu’d,) Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd, Sigh'd when the perishable pomp he view'd: And as he rode high in his regal car, In all the purple pride of conqueft dreft, Confpicuous o'er the trophies gain'd in war, Plac'd pendent on a fpear his burial veft; While thus the herald cry'd,-"This fon of Pow'r, "This Saladin to whom the nations bow'd, "May in the fpace of one revolving hour, "Boaft of no other fpoil but yonder shroud !" Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour fteel'd, Where Slaughter like the rapid lightning ran, And fay, while Mem'ry weeps the blood-ftain'd field, Where lies the chief, and where the common man? Vain then are pyramids and motto'd stones, And monumental trophies rais'd on high; For Time confounds them with the crumbling bones That mix'd in hafty graves unnotic'd lie. Res not beneath the turf the peafant's head Soft as the lord's beneath the labour'd tomb? |