ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.

I.

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!

II.

In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love thro' life the soothing shade.

III.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell.

IV.

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!

V.

And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening † spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

*The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

+ Richmond Church.

VI.

But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Or tears, which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year.

VIII.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

IX.

And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's Child, again adieu!

X.

The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.

XI.

Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes,
O! vales, and wild woods, shall He say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE,

SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The red-breast oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid;
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chace on ev'ry plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND,

CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY.

Home thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long

Have seen thee ling'ring, with a fond delay,

Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,

Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.

Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth,

Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side;

Together let us wish him lasting truth,

And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; But think far off how, on the southern coast,

I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose ev'ry vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;

h

Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

II.

THERE must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill,
"Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;

Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet

Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill.

a

ODE ON POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS 67

There each trim lass that skims the milky store.
To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There every herd, by sad experience, knows
How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly;
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain:

Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect;

Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain;

These are the themes of simple, sure effect That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.

III.

Ev'n yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear,
Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,
Taught by the father to his list'ning son

Strange lays, whose power had charm'd a SPENCER's

ear.

At ev'ry pause, before thy mind possest,

Old RUNIC bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat * The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave,

When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom beat,

And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel,

Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms; When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,

* First written, relate.