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Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain,
Oh, Goldsmith! how shall sorrow now essay To murmur out her slow incondite lay? In what sad accents mourn the luckless hours That yielded thee to unrelenting power ; Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish'd strain ? Much-honour'd Bard ! if my untutor'd verse Could pay a tribute, worthy of thy hearse, With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise, And boldly strew the never-fading bays. But, ah! with thee my guardian Genius fled, And pillow'd in thy tomb his silent head: Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, And pensive stalks the solitary plains. Rich in her sorrows, honours without art, She
pays in tears, redundant from the heart. And say, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd dust To heap the graven pile, or laurel'd bust; Since by thy hands already rais'd on high, We see a fabric tow'ring to the sky: Where hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore Shall travel on, till Nature is no more?