Noise that thro' a trumpet speaks,
Laughter in loud peals that breaks,
Intrufion with a fopling's face,
(Ignorant of time and place),
Sparks of fire Diffention blowing,
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing,
Reftraint's ftiff neck, Grimace's leer,
Squint-ey'd Cenfure's artful fneer,
Ambition's buskins steep'd in blood,
Fly thy prefence, Solitude.
Sage Reflection bent with years,
Conscious: Virtue void of fears,
Muffled Silence wood-nymph fhy,
Meditation's piercing eye,
Halcyon Peace on mofs reclin'd,
Retrofpect that scans the mind,
Rapt earth-gazing Refvery,
Blufhing artless Modefty,
Health that fnuffs the morning air,
Full-ey'd Truth with bofom bare,
Infpiration, Nature's child,
Seek the folitary wild.
You with the tragic Muse 'retir'd
The wife Euripides infpir'd,
You taught the fadly-pleasing air
That & Athens fav'd from ruins bare.
You gave the Cean's tears to flow,
And h unlock'd the fprings of woe;
You penn'd what exil'd Nafo thought,
And pour'd the melancholy note.
With Petrarch o'er Valclufe you ftray'd,
When Death fnatch'd his long-lov'd maid;
You taught the, rocks her lofs to mourn,
You ftrew'd with flowers her virgin urn.
And late in Hagley you were seen,
With bloodshed eyes, and fombre mien,
Hymen his yellow vestment tore,
And Dirge a wreath of cyprefs wore.
But chief your own the folemn lay
That wept Narciffa young and gay,
Darkness clap'd her fable wing,
While you touch'd the mournful ftring,
Anguish left the pathlefs wild,
Grim-fac'd Melancholy fmil'd,
Drowsy Midnight ceas'd to yawn,
The ftarry hoft put back the dawn,
Afide their harps ev'n Seraphs flung
To hear thy fweet complaint, O Young.
1 Laura, twenty years, and ten after her death. *Monody on the death of Mrs. Lyttleton.
When all Nature's hush'd asleep,
Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep,
Soft you leave your cavern'd den,
And wander o'er the works of men,
But when Phosphor brings the dawn
By her dappled courfers drawn,
Again you to the wild retreat
And the early huntsman meet,
Where as you penfive pace along,
You catch the diftant fhepherd's fong,
Or brush from herbs the pearly dew,
Or the rifing primrose view.
Devotion lends her heaven-plum'd wings,
You mount, and Nature with you fings.
But when mid-day fervors glow,
To upland airy fhades you go,
Where never funburnt woodman came,
Nor sportsman chas'd the timid game;
And there beneath an oak reclin'd,
With drowsy waterfalls behind,
"Till the tuneful bird of night-
From the neighb'ring poplars height
Wake you with her folemn strain,
And teach pleas'd Echo to complain.
VI.
With you roses brighter bloom
Sweeter every fweet perfume,
Let those toil for gold who please,
Or for fame renounce their ease.
What is fame?' an empty bubble,
Gold? a tranfient, fhining trouble.
Let them for their country bleed,
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed?
Man's not worth a moment's pain,
Bafe, ungrateful, fickle, vain.
Then let me, fequefter'd fair,
To your Sibyl grot repair,
On yon hanging cliff it ftands
Scoop'd by Nature's falvage hands,
Bofom'd in the gloomy fhade
Of cypress not with age decay'd.
Where the owl ftill-hooting fits,
Where the bat inceffant flits,
There in loftier ftrains I'll fing
Whence the changing seasons spring,
Tell how ftorms deform the skies,
Whence the waves subside and rise,
Trace the comet's blazing tail,
Weigh the planets in a scale;
Bend, great God, before thy fhrine,
The bournlefs macrocofm's thine.
Save me! what's yon fhrouded shade?
That wanders in the dark-brown glade.
It beckons me!vain fears adieu,
Myfterious ghoft, I follow you.
Ah me! too well that gait I know,
My youth's first friend, my manhood's woe!
Its breaft it bares! what! ftain'd with blood?
Quick let me flanch the vital flood.
Oh fpirit, whither art thou flown?
Why left me comfortlefs alone?
O Solitude on me bestow,
The heart-felt harmony of woe,
Such, fuch, as on th' Aufonian shore,
Sweet Dorian Mofchus trill'd of yore:
No time should cancel thy defért,
More, more, than m Bion was, thou wert.
IX.
O goddess of the tearful eye,
The never-ceafing ftream fupply.
Let us with Retirement go
To charnels, and the house of woe,
O'er Friendship's herfe low-drooping mourn,
Where the fickly tapers burn,
Where Death and nun-clad Sorrow dwell,
And nightly ring the folemn knell.
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