ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND. IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; In yon deep bed of whispering reeds May love through life the soothing shade. 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, To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft, as ease and health retire But thou, who own'st that earthy bed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail! Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year! But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide And see, the fairy valleys fade; Dun night has veiled the solemn view! The genial meads, assigned to bless Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND; CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY; INSCRIBED TO MR. JOIN HOME. I. HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee lingering 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 endeared, thou leavest by Lavant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destined bride. I met thy friendship with an equal flame ! II. There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; There, each trim lass, that skims the milky store, Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Nor thou, though learned, 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, III. Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear, Strange lays, whose power had charmed a Spenser's car., Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-colored vest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave, When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strewed 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, The sturdy clans poured forth their brawny swarms, And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's arms. IV. 'T is thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells, And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare V. To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, In the first year of the first George's reign Saw, at sad Falkirk, all their hopes near crowned! They raved! divining, through their second sight, Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drowned ! |