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D E,

TO A LADY, ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL

CHARLES ROSS IN THE ACTION AT FONTENOY. WRITTEN MAY MDCCXLV.

Hile, loft to all his former mirth,

WH

Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While ftain'd with blood he strives to tear

Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May:

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:

Still Fancy, to herself unkind,

Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall bless the grave,

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Where'er the youth is laid :

That facred spot the village hind

With every sweetest turf fhall bind,

And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,

Aerial forms fhall fit at eve,

And bend the penfive head!

And, fallen to fave his injur'd land,.

Imperial Honour's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their fainted reft:

And, half-reclining on his fpear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Creffy's laurell'd field,

And

And gaze with fix'd delight: Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they fnatch the gleamy steel, And wish th' avenging fight.

But lo where, funk in deep defpair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted treffes madly fpread,
To every fod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er fhall fhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph burfting round

Proclaim her reign reftor'd:

Till William feek the fad retreat,
And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated sword.

If, weak to foothe fo foft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,

To dry thy conftant tear:

If f yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,

Expos'd and pale thou feeft him lie,
Wild war infulting near:

Where'er from time thou court'ft relief,
The Muse shall ftill, with focial grief,
Her gentleft promise keep:

Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale

Shall learn the fad repeated tale,
And bid her fhepherds weep.

ODE

ODE TO EVENING.

F aught of oaten ftop, or pastoral fong,

IF

May hope, chafte Eve, to foothe thy modeft ear,

Like thy own folemn fprings,

Thy fprings, and dying gales,

O Nymph referv'd, while now the bright hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whofe cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed;

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill fhriek flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedless hum:
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,

To breathe fome foften'd ftrain,

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