ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY. Me quoque Musarum studium sub nocte silenti ENOUGH of fabling, and th' unhallow'd haunts Are subjects that befit a serious song; May but compare with thee, lamented Gray! Drew all the list'ning shepherds in a ring, Thy moving notes, on sunny hill or plain, O wood-hung Menaï, and ye sacred groves 'Twas there of old where mused illustrious Gray! Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on, To scorn the great, and love the wise and good; And to what ills frail mankind open lies; oft appear. And when fair Morn arose again to view, That blooms like Eden in his charming lays, The musky gale, in rosy vale, The very insects, that in sunbeams play, But, ah! sad Melancholy intervenes, And draws a cloud o'er all these shining scenes. The troubler of each great unbounded mind, But now, great Bard, thy life of pain is o'er; 'Tis we must weep, though thou shalt grieve no more. Through other scenes thou now dost rove, And clothed with gladness walk'st the courts above, And listen'st to the heavenly choir, Hymning their God, while seraphs strike the lyre. Safe with them in those radiant climes of bliss, Thou now enjoy'st eternal happiness. ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY. By the Earl of Carlisle, WHAT Spirit's that which mounts on high, In glorious state through yielding clouds they sail, And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse. What avails the poet's art? What avails his magic hand? Can he arrest Death's pointed dart, Well I know thee, gentle shade! That tuneful voice, that eagle eye.- The listening Dryad, with attention still, On tiptoe oft would near the poet steal, To hear him sing upon the lonely hill Of all the wonders of th' expanded vale, The distant hamlet, and the winding stream, The steeple shaded by the friendly yew, Sunk in the wood the sun's departing gleam, The grey-robed landscape stealing from the view. *Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing woe, O'er each low tomb he breathed his pious strain, A lesson to the village swain, And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow!- Ranks of heroes fill the sight! Hark! the carnage is begun! And see the furies through the fiery air [bear! O'er Cambria's frighten'd land the screams of horror Now, led by playful Fancy's hand, O'er the white surge he treads with printless feet, Here roses paint the crimson way, Wild as the priestess of the Thracian fane, To harmony each hill and valley rung ! Alluding to Mr. Gray's Elegy written in a Country Church yard. The Bard, a Pindaric Ode. 1 The Progress of Poetry, a Pindaric Ode. To melting bliss resign'd his furious soul, Henry, thy darling plant must bloom no more! Through life's new seas the little bark to steer; Thoughtless, he spies no furious tempest near, Your dreadful reign: Prepare the iron scourge, prepare the venom'd dart, For who can now her whirlwind flight control, He who could still the tempest of her soul, Now seated by his Thracian sire, At the full feast of mighty Jove And fills with harmony the realms above! Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College. LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MR. GRÁY. Extracted from the third book of MASON'S 'ENGLISH GARDEN.' CLOSED is that curious ear by death's cold hand, Oft, smiling as in scorn,' oft would he cry, Why waste thy numbers on a trivial art, That ill can mimic ev'n the humblest charms Of all-majestic Nature ?' at the word His eye would glisten, and his accents glow With all the Poet's frenzy, Sov'reign queen! Behold, and tremble, while thou view'st her state Throned on the heights of Skiddaw: call thy art To build her such a throne; that art will feel How vain her best pretensions. Trace her march Amid the purple crags of Borrowdale ; And try like those to pile thy range of rock In rude tumultuous chaos. See! she mounts |