In glitt❜ring arms and glory drest, XI. THE DEATH OF HOEL. From the Welsh, HAD I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage and wild affright Too, too secure in youthful pride, • Of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards. He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A. D. 570. This Ode is extracted from the Gododin. (See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71. and 73.) F Every warrior's manly neck SONNET ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST. In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine, And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: These ears, alas! for other notes repine, A different object do these eyes require ; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine, And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men: The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain : I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more, because I weep in vain. * See Memoirs, Sect. 3. EPITAPH I. ON *MRS. CLARKE. A pang, to secret sorrow dear; EPITAPH II.+ ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS. HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, Young Williams fought for England's fair renown; His mind each muse, each grace adorn'd his frame, Nor Envy dared to view him with a frown. At Aix his voluntary sword he drew, There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love he flew, And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field. This lady, the wife of Dr. Clarke, physician at Epsom, died April 27, 1757; and is buried in the church of Beckenham, Kent. This epitaph was written at the request of Mr. Frederick Montagu, who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which this accomplished youth was killed, 1761; but from some difficulty attending the erection of it, this design was not executed. With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page ; And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full may a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. |