Yes, thou art gone; yet friendship's faltʼring tongue
Invokes thee still; and still, by fancy soothed,
Fain would she hope her Gray attends the call.
Why then, alas' in this my favʼrite haunt,
Place I the urn, the bust, the sculptured lyre,
Or fix this votive tablet, fair inscribed
With numbers worthy thee, for they are thine?
Why, if thou hear'st me still, these symbols sad
Of fond memorial? Ah! my pensive soul!
He hears me not, nor ever more shall hear
The theme his candour, not his taste, approved.

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 Ilow 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 Her Naiad car, and, down Lodore's dread cliff Falls many a fathom, like the headlong bard My fabling fancy plunged in Conway's flood; Yet not like him to sink in endless night: For, on its boiling bosom, still she guides Her buoyant shell, and leads the wave along; Or spreads it broad, a river, or a lake, As suits her pleasure; will thy boldest song E'er brace the sinews of enervate art To such dread daring? will it ev❜n direct Her hand to emulate those softer charins

That deck the banks of Dove, or call to birth
The bare romantic crags, and copses green,
That sidelong grace her circuit, whence the rills,
Bright in their crystal purity, descend

To meet their sparkling queen? around each fount
The hawthorns crowd, and knit their blossom'd spraya
To keep their sources sacred. Here, even here,
Thy art, each active sinew stretch'd in vain,
Would perish in its pride. Far rather thou
Confess her scanty power, correct, control,
Tell her how far, nor farther, she may go !
And rein with reason's curb fantastic taste.'

Yes, I will hear thee, dear lamented shade,
And hold each dictate sacred. What remains
Unsung shall so each leading rule select
As if still guided by thy judgment sage;
While, as still modell'd to thy curious ear,
Flow my melodious numbers; so shall praise,
If aught of praise the verse I weave may claim,
From just posterity reward my song.

FAIR are the gardens of the Aonian mount,
And sweet those blooming flow'rs
Which paint the Maiden's bow'rs;
And clear the waters of the gurgling fount!
Swift they wind through chequer'd allies;
Huddling down to th' open valleys;

Where the quick ripple in the sunbeams plays,
Turning to endless forms each glance of twinkling

blaze.

O'er the gay scene th' enamour'd inmates roam :
And gather fresh ideas as they rise
From Nature's manifold supplies.
Alas! for whom!

Many a gleam of sprightly thought,
Many a sad and sable mood,
Whether from dazzling lustre brought,

Or nursed by shades of darksome wood,
Keep death-like silence on their native shore,
Since he that gave them speech, is heard no more.
Flown is the spirit of Gray,

Like common breath to mingle with the air:

Yet still those Goddesses' peculiar care,

That breathe harmonious lay.

Retired to yonder grassy mound

In leaves of dusky hue encompass'd round,
They bid their plaintive accents fill

The covert hollows of the bosom'd hill:
With liquid voice and magic hand

Calliope informs the band:

Hush'd are the warblers of the grove, attentive to the sound.

'Soft and slow

Let the melting measures flow,

Nor lighter air disturb majestic woo. And thou, sage Priestess* of our holy fire,

Who saw'st the Poet's flame expire.

Thy precious drops profusely shed

O'er his well-deserving head,

Thou nurtur'dst once a grateful throng,
When Milton pour'd the sweets of song,
On Lycidas sunk low.

• Cambridge University, where Gray died.

Now wake the faithful lyre--mute Dulness reigns; Your echoes waft no more the friendly theme: Clogg'd with thick vapours from the neighb'ring plains, Where old Cam hardly moves his sluggard stream. But when some public cause

Claims festive song or more melodious tear,
Discordant murmurs grate mine ear.

Ne'er modell'd by Pierian laws,

Then idly glares full many a motley toy,
Anacreontic grief, and creeping strains of joy.
Far other modes were thine,

Victim of hasty fate,

Whom now the powers of melody deplore;
Whether in lofty state

Thou bad'st thy train divine

Of raptures on Pindaric pinions soar:
Or hoping from thyself to fly

To childhood's careless scenes,t
Thou sent'st a warm refreshing eye
On Nature's faded greens:

Or when thy calm and steadfast mind
With philosophic reach profound

Self-pleasing vanities resign'd,

Fond of the look, that loves the ground; †

Discern'd by Reason's equal light,

How gaudy Fortune cheats the sight;

While the coarse maid, innured to pain,

Supports the lab'ring heart, and Virtue's happiest reign

But most the music of thy plantive moang
With lengthen'd note detains the list'ning ear,

As lost in thought thou wander'st all alone

Where spirits hover round their mansions drear.

* See Gray's Pindaric Odes,

Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College.
Hymn to Adversity.
Church-yard Elegy.

By Contemplation's eye serenely view'd, Each lowry object wears an awful mien : "Tis our own bindness veils the latent good: The works of Nature need but to be seen. Thou saw'st her beaming from the hamlet-sires Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade; Where now, still faithful to their wonted fires, Thy own dear ashes are for ever laid.'

STANZAS

ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.
By a Lady.

WHERE sleeps the Bard who graced Museus' hearse
With fragrant trophies by the Muses wove!
Shall Gray's cold urn in vain demand the verse,
Oh! can his Mason fail in plaintive love?

No; with the Nine inwrapp'd in social woe,
His lyre unstrung, sad vigil he must keep;

With them he mourns, with them his eyes o'erflow,
For such a Bard immortal Maids can weep.
Their early pupil in the heav'nly lore

Of sacred poesy and moral song,

They taught the youth on eagle wing to soar,
And bore him through aërial heights along.

Fancy, obedient to the dread command,

With brilliant Genius, marshall'd forth his way: They lured his steps to Cambria's once-famed land, And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay. But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre, Imperious Death! from thy fell grasp to save;

He knew, and told it with a Poet's fire,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'

* Gray was buried at Stoke, the scene of the Elegy.
G 2