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STANZAS

ON
THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

BY A LADY.

W HERE sleeps the Bard who grac'd Museus'

hearse With fragrant trophies by the Muses wove! Shall Gray's cold urn in vain demand the verse,

Oh! can his Mason fail in plaintive love?

No; with the Nine inwrapp'd in social woe,

His lyre unstrung, sad vigil he must keep; . With them he mourns, with them his eyes o'erflow,

For such a Bard immortal Maids can weep.

Their early pupil in the heav'nly lore

Of sacred poesy and moral song,
They taught the youth on eagle wing to soar,

And bore him thro' aërial heights along.

Fancy, obedient to their dread command,

With brilliant Genius, marshall’d forth his way; They lur'd his steps to Cambria's once-fam'd land,

And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay.

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But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre,

Imperious Death! from thy fell grasp to save; He knew, and told it with a Poet's fire,

“ The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.”

And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing mind

Mourn’d o'er the simple Rustic's turfy cell, To strew his tomb no grateful Mourner find,

No Village Swain to ring one parting knell?

Yes, honour'd shade! the fringed brooks I'll trace,

Green rushes culling thy dank grave to strew; With mountain flow'rs I'll deck the hallow'd place,

And fence it round with osiers mix'd with yew,

THE TEARS OF GENIUS:

AN ODE.

TO

THE MEMORY OF MR. GRAY.

BY J. T

ON Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hal

low'd fane Majestic rises on the astonished sight, Where oft the Muse has led the favourite swain, And warm'd his soul with Heaven's inspiring

light,

Beneath the covert of the sylvan shade,

Where deadly cypress, mix'd with mournful yew, Far o'er the vale a gloomy stillness spread,

Celestial Genius burst upon the view.

The bloom of youth, the majesty of years,

The soften'd aspect, innocent and kind, The sigh of sorrow, and the streaming tears,

Resistless all, their various pow'r combin’d.

In her fair hand a silver harp she bore,

Whose magic notes, soft-warbling from the string, Give tranquil joy the breast ne'er knew before,

Or raise the soul on rapture's airy wing. By grief impell’d, I heard her heave a sigh, While thus the rapid strain resounded thro’the sky:

Haste, ye sister powers of song,

Hasten from the shady grove,
Where the river rolls along,

Sweetly to the voice of love.

Where, indulging mirthful pleasures,

Light you press the flow'ry green,
And from Flora's blooming treasures
Cull the wreaths for Fancy's queen.

Where your gently-flowing numbers,

Floating on the fragrant breeze,
Sink the soul in pleasing slumbers

On the downy bed of ease.

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For graver strains prepare the plaintive lyre,

That wakes the softest feelings of the soul; Let lonely Grief the melting verse inspire,

Let deep'ning Sorrow's solemn accents roll.

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Rack'd by the hand of rude Disease ;

Behold our fav’rite Poet lies!
While every object form’d to please,

Far from his couch ungrateful flies.

The blissful Muse, whose favouring smile

So lately warm’d his peaceful breast,
Diffusing heavenly joys the while,

In Transport's radiant garments drest, With darksome grandeur and enfeeblid blaze, Sinks in the shades of night, and shuns his eager

gaze.

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