Where is thy native simple heart, EPITAPH. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; ODE TO EVENING. If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales; O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, And hamlets brown, and dim discovered spires, The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, The redbreast oft at evening hours, When howling winds and beating rain, Each lonely scene shall thee restore, And mourned, till pity's self be dead. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds, Then maids and youths shall linger here, To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft as ease and health retire, But thou who own'st that earthly bed, Or tears which love and pity shed, |