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Oft the pale matron from the threatening wall,
Full swiftly steps the frighted peasant by.
But more respectful views the' historic sage,
He pensive oft reviews the mighty dead,
Rest, gentle Rivers! and ill-fated Gray!
A flower or tear oft strews your humble grave, Whom Envy slew, to pave Ambition's way, And whom a monarch wept in vain to save.
Ah! what avail'd the' alliance of a throne?
The pomp of titles what, or power rever'd? Happier! to these the humble life unknown, With virtue honour'd, and by peace endear'd..
Had thus the sons of bleeding Britain thought,
Yet many a hero, whose defeated hand
In death resign'd the well-contested field,
Ill could the Muse indignant grief forbear,
The' inglorious triumphs of the varied Rose!
While York with conquest and revenge elate,
Ah prince! unequal to the toils of war,
In vain fair Victory beam'd the gladdening eye,
Full rightly deem'd unsteady Fortune's child.
Let Towton's field—but cease the dismal tale :
The patriot's exile, or the hero's fall.
Thus silver Wharf, whose crystal-sparkling urn Reflects the brilliance of his blooming shore, Still, melancholy-mazing seems to mourn,
But rolls, confus'd, a crimson wave no more.
• A river near the scene of battle, in which were slain 35,000
TO THE REV. MR. LAMB.
LAMB! could the muse that boasts thy forming care, Unfold the grateful feelings of my heart,
Her hand for thee should many a wreath prepare, And cull the choicest flowers with studious art.
For mark'd by thee was each imperfect ray
Each uncouth lay that falter'd from my tongue, At eve or morn from Eden's murmurs caught; Whate'er I painted, and whate'er I sung,
Though rude the strain, though artless was the draught;
You wisely prais'd, and fed the sacred fire,
That warms the breast with love and honest fame; You swell'd to nobler heights the infant lyre, Rais'd the low thought, and check'd the' exuberant flame.
O could the Muse in future times obtain
POEMS ON HIS LADY.
TO MISS CRACROFT.
THE COMPLAINT OF HER RING-DOVE.
'FAR from the smiles of blue hesperian skies, Far from those vales where flowery pleasures
(Dear scenes of freedom, lost to these sad eyes,) How hard to languish in this lonely cell!
When genial gales relume the fires of love, When laughing Spring leads round the jocund year;
Ah! view with pity, gentle maid, your dove,
To me no more the laughing Spring looks gay; Nor annual loves relume my languid breast; Time slowly drags the long, delightless day, Through one dull scene of solitary rest.
Ah! what avails, that dreaming Fancy roves Through the wild beauties of her native reign! Breathes in green fields, and feeds in freshening groves,
To wake to anguish in this hopeless chain?