Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the defart air.

Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious MILTON here may reft,
Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd: Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incenfe, kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.'

Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and fhapeless fculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd

mufe,

The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruiftc moralift to dye.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Awake and faithful to her wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Doft in these lines their artlefs tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit fhall inquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may fay, ⚫ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn • Brushing with hafty steps the dews away, To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high, • His liftlefs length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. • Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in fcorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, • Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.

• One morn I mifs'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet befide the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
• The next with dirges due in fad array,

• Slow thro' church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canft read) the lay, • Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

• There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unfeen, are show'rs of violets found;
The red-breast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

THE EPITAPH.

"Here refts his head upon the lap of earth "A youth to fortune and to fame unknown : "Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, "And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

66

Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere, "Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend: "He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear :

"He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wifh'd) a friend. "No farther feek his merits to disclose, "Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, "(There they alike in trembling hope repose) "The bofom of his Father and his God.

ON THE DEATH OF

FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNT STORMONT, OF CH. CH. OXON.

LITTLE I whilom deem'd, my artless zeal

Should woo the British Muse in foreign land To strains of bitter argument, and teach The mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding verge And oozy current of Parifian Seine, To fyllable new founds in accent strange.

But fad occafion calls: who now forbears The laft kind office? who but confecrates His off'ring at the fhrine of fair Renown To gracious FREDERIC rais'd; tho' but compos'd Of the waste flourets, whose neglected hues Chequer the lonely hedge, or mountain slope? Where are those hopes, where fled th' illufive scenes That forgeful Fancy plan'd, what time the bark Stem'd the falt wave from Albion's chalky bourn? Then filial Piety and parting Love

Pour'd the fond pray'r; "Farewell, ye lefs'ning

"cliffs,

"Fairer to me, than ought in fabled fong "Or mystic record told of shores Atlantic! "Favour'd of heav'n, farewell! imperial isle, "Native to nobleft wits, and best approv'd "In manly science, and advent'rous deed! "Celestial Freedom, by rude hand estrang'd "From regions once frequented, with Thee takes "Her ftedfast station, fast beside the throne "Of scepter'd Rule, and there her state maintains "In focial concord, and harmonious love. "Thefe bleffings ftill be thine, nor medling fiend "Stir in your busy streets foul Faction's roar; "Still thrive your growing works, and gales propitious "Vifit your fons who ride the watry waste;、 "And still be heard from forth your gladsome bow'rs "Shrill tabor-pipes, and ev'ry peaceful found.

"Norvain the wish, while GEORGE the golden fcale "With steady prudence holds, and temp'rate sway. "And when his course of earthly honour's run, "With lenient hand fhall FREDERIC footh your care, "Rich in each princely quality, mature "In years, and happiest in nuptual choice. "Thence too arise new hopes, a playful troop "Circles his hearth, fweet pledges of that bed, "Which Faith, and Joy, and thousand Virtues guard. "His be the care t' inform their ductile minds "With worthiest thoughts, and point the ways of "honour.