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"Thou saw'st her beaming from the hamlet-sires "Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's "shade;

"Where now, still faithful to their wonted fires [68], "Thy own dear ashes are for ever laid."

[68] Gray was buried at Stoke, the scene of the Elegy.

STANZAS

ON

THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

BY A LADY.

WHERE sleeps the Bard who grac'd 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 sɔng,

They taught the youth on eagle wing to soar,
And bore him thro' aërial heights along.

Fancy obedient to their dread command,

With brillant Genius, marshall'd forth his way; They lur'd his steps to Cambria's once-fam'd 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.

R 2

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 combin'd.

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 thro' the sky:

For

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.

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.

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