On fome fond breaft the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Doft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred Spirit fhall inquire thy fate, z Ch'i veggio nel penfier, dolce mio fuoco, Petrarch. Sen. 169. Haply Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high, 'His liftless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. • Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in fcorn, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, • One One morn I mifs'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath and near his favʼrite tree; • Another came; nor yet befide the rill, 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; • The next with dirges due in fad array • Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. Approach and read (for thou can'ft read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' |