And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing mind THE TEARS OF GENIUS: AN ODE. By Mr. Taite. ON Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'd fane Where oft the Muse has led the favourite swain, Beneath the covert of the sylvan shade, Where deadly cypress, mix'd with mournful yew, The bloom of youth, the majesty of years, 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; . For Haste, ye sister powers of song, Hasten from the shady grove, Sweetly to the voice of love. On the downy bed of ease. graver strains prepare the plantive lyre, In Transport's radiant garments drest, The gaudy train, who wait on Spring,⚫ The youths who mount on Pleasure's wing,t With cool regard their various arts employ, Nor rouse the drooping mind, nor give the pause of joy. Ha! what forms, with port sublime, They seize their harps, they strike the lyre And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains resound. In pomp of state, behold they wait, With arms outstretch'd, and aspects kind, The child of Fancy left behind: Forgot the woes of Cambria's fatal day, By rapture's blaze impell'd, they swell the artless lav. 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 glow ing page. No more the soft Æolian flute t Breathes through the heart the melting strain; The powers of Harmony are mute And leave the once-delightful plain ; With heavy wing, I see them beat the air, Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless Despair. The Bard, an Ode. + Hymn to Adversity. The Progress of Poesy. Yet stay, O! stay, celestial pow'rs, O watch with me his last expiring breath, And snatch him from the arms of dark, oblivious death. Hark! the Fatal Sisters join, And with Horror's mutt'ring sounds, Weave the tissue of his line, While the dreadful spell resounds. 'Hail, ye midnight sisters, hail! 'O'er the glory of the land, "Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of pain, Thus fades the flow'r nipp'd by the frozen gale, Ye sacred sisters of the plaintive verse, The Fatal Sisters, an Ode. Oft when the curfew tolls its parting knell With solemn pause yon Church-yard's gloom survey, O'er his green grave, in Contemplation's guise, EPITAPH ON MR. GRAY'S MONUMENT, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. By Mr. Mason. No more the Grecian Muse unrivall❜d reigns; Klegy in a Country Church-yard. |