AN ELEGY ON CAPTAIN COOK. SORROWING, the Nine beneath yon blasted Shed the bright drops of Pity's holy dew; [yew Mute are their tuneful tongues, extinct their fires; Yet not in silence sleep their silver lyres ; Ye, who ere while for Cook's illustrious brow Pluck'd the green laurel, and the oaken bough, Hung the gay garlands on the trophied oars, And pour'd his fame along a thousand shores, Strike the slow death-bell!-weave the sacred verse, And strew the cypress o'er his honor'd hearse; Say first, what Pow'r inspir'd his dauntless breast With scorn of danger, and inglorious rest, In cups of summer-ice her nectar pours, [bow'rs? What Pow'r inspired his dauntless breast to brave The scorch'd Equator, and th' Antarctic wave? Climes, where fierce suns in cloudless ardors shine, And pour the dazzling deluge round the line; The realms of frost, where icy mountains rise, 'Mid the pale summer of the polar skies?— |