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 thoughts which mufing pity pays, Still Fancy, to herself unkind, Awakes to grief the foften'd mind, By rapid Scheld's defcending wave 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, Shall leave their fainted reft: And, half-reclining on his fpear, Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield, 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 matted treffes madly fpread, Ne'er fhall fhe leave that lowly ground, Proclaim her reign reftor'd: Till William feek the fad retreat, If, weak to foothe fo foft an heart, To dry thy conftant tear: If f yet, in Sorrow's distant eye, Expos'd and pale thou feeft him lie, Where'er from time thou court'ft relief, Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale Shall learn the fad repeated tale, 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 O'erhang his wavy bed; Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-eyed bat, Or where the beetle winds His fmall but fullen horn, As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path, To breathe fome foften'd ftrain, |