STANZAS

ON

THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

By a Lady.

WHERE sleeps the Bard who graced 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 through aërial heights along.

Fancy, obedient to their dread command,

With brilliant Genius, marshall'd forth his way; They lured his steps to Cambria's once-famed land, And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay.

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 brook 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.

By Mr Taite.

ON Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'd fane

Majestic rises on the astonish'd 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 combined.

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 through 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.

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.

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 enfeebled blaze,
Sinks in the shades of night, and shuns his eager
gaze.

The gaudy train, who wait on Spring*,
Tinged with the pomp of vernal pride,

The youths who mount on Pleasure's wingt,
And idly sport on Thames's side,

Ode on Spring.

† Ode on the Prospect of Eton College.

With cool regard their various arts employ,

Nor rouse the drooping mind, nor give the pause

of joy.

Ha! what forms, with port sublime*,

Glide along in sullen mood,
Scorning all the threats of time,

High above Misfortune's flood?

They seize their harps, they strike the lyre,
With rapid hand, with freedom's fire.
Obedient Nature hears the lofty sound,

And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains resound.

In pomp of state, behold they wait,

With arms outstretch'd, and aspects kind,
To snatch on high to yonder sky,

The child of Fancy left behind:

Forgot the woes of Cambria's fatal day,

By rapture's blaze impell'd, they swell the artless lay.

But ah! in vain they strive to sooth,
With gentle arts, the tort'ring hours;
Adversity †, with rankling tooth,

Her baleful gifts profusely pours.

Behold she comes, the fiend forlorn, Array'd in Horror's settled gloom; She strews the briar and prickly thorn, And triumphs in th' infernal doom. With frantic fury and insatiate rage,

She gnaws the throbbing breast and blasts the glowing page.

The Bard, an Ode. + Hymn to Adversity.