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Along with Pleasure close ally'd,
Ever by each other's fide;

And often, by the murm'ring rill,
Hears the thrush while all is ftill,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

CUNNINGHAM,

ELEGY,

ON A PILE OF RUINS.

IN the full profpect yonder hill commands,

O'er foreft, fields, and vernal-coated plains,
The veftige of an ancient Abbey stands,
Clofe by a ruin'd Caftle's rude remains.

Half bury'd there lie many a broken buft,
And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time;
And many a cherub there defcends in duft
From the rent roof and portico fublime.

The rivulets, oft' frighted at the found

Of fragments tumbling from the tow'rs on high,
Plunge to their fource in fecret caves profound,
Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry.

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 !
This Pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,
Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.
Religion rais'd her fupplicating eyes

In vain, and Melody her fong fublime;
In vain Philofophy, with maxims wife,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.

Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not mov'd to spare,
Relented when he ftruck its finish'd pride;
And partly the rude ravage to repair,

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,
Now nameless as the crowd that kifs'd his veft,
And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illuftrious chieftain lie;
As trac'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.

Ah what avails that o'er the vasal-plain
His rights and rich demefnes extended wide?
That Honour and her knights compos'd his train,
And Chivalry ftood marshall'd by his fide?

Tho' to the clouds his caftle feem'd to climb,
And frown'd defiance on the defp'rate foe;

Tho' deem'd invincible, the conq'ror Time
Levell'd the fabric as the founder low.

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,
Sweet finging at the filver-working loom.

The trav❜ller is bewilder'd on a waste ;
And the rude winds inceffant seem to roar,
Where in his groves, with arching arbours grac'd,
Young lovers often figh'd in days of yore.

His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide
To pure canals, a crystal cool supply!
In the deep duft their barren beauties hide:
Time's thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them dry.
Tho' his rich hours in revelry were spent
With Comus and the laughter-loving crew,
And the fweet brow of Beauty, ftill unbent,
Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew :

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they muft;
Not to be ftay'd by mafk or midnight roar ;
Nor fhall a pulfe among that mould'ring duft
Beat wanton at the fmiles of Beauty more.

Can the deep Statefman, fkill'd in great defign,
Protract but for a day precarious breath?
Or the tun'd foll'wer of the facred Nine
Soothe with his melody infatiate Death?

No.-Tho' the palace bar her golden gate,
Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around,
Unerring and unfeen, the shaft of Fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground.

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?

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