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And thro' these long-lost scenes delighted roves :
Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on,
The very insects, that in sun-beams play,
But, ah! sad Melancholy intervenes,
But now, great Bard, thy life of pain is o'er;
THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY,
BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
EARL OF CARLISLE.
WHAT spirit's that which mounts on high,
His white robes flutter to the gale:
In glorious state through yielding clouds they sail, And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse.
What avails the poet's art?
What avails his magic hand ?
Or charm to sleep his murderous band?
That tuneful voice, that eagle eye.-
The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die;
every honour deck his funeral bier, For he to every Grace, and every Muse was dear! The listening Dryad, with attention still,
On tiptoe oft would near the poet steal, To hear him sing upon the lonely hill
Of all the wonders of th’ expanded vale, The distant hamlet, and the winding stream,
The steeple shaded by the friendly yew, Sunk in the wood the sun's departing gleam,
The grey-rob'd landscape stealing from the view.  Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing woe,
O’er each low tomb he breath'd his pious strain,
A lesson to the village swain, And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow !  But soon with bolder note, and wilder flight, O'er the loud strings his rapid hand would run :
Mars hath lit his torch of war, Ranks of heroes fill the sight!
Hark! the carnage is begun !
 This alludes to Mr. Gray's Elegy written in a Country Church-yard.
 The Bard, a Pindaric Ode.
And see the furies through the fiery air
 Now led by playful Fancy's hand O'er the white surge he treads with printless feet,
To agic shores he flies, and fairy land, Imagination's blest retreat.
Here roses paint the crimson way,
No setting sun, eternal May,
To harmony each hill and valley rung!
The bird of Jove, as when Apollo sung, To melting bliss resign'd his furious soul, With milder rage his eyes began to roll,
The heaving down his thrilling joys confest, Till by a mortal's hand subdued he sunk to rest.  O, guardian angel of our early day,
Henry, thy darling plant must bloom no more!
 The Progress of Poetry, a Pindaric Ode.
 Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College.