ODE XXVIII.

WRITTEN

UPON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

BY FREDERICK EARL OF CARLISLE.

WHAT Spirit's that which mounts on high,
Borne on the arms of every tuneful Muse?
His white robes flutter to the gale :

They wing their way to yonder opening sky,

In glorious state through yielding clouds they

sail,

And scents of heavenly flow'rs on earth diffuse.

What avails the Poet's art?

What avails his magic hand ?
Can he arrest Death's pointed dart,

Or charm to sleep his murderous band ?

Well I know thee, gentle shade!

That tuneful voice, that eagle eye.—
Quick bring me flowers that ne'er shall fade,

The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die;

With every honor deck his funeral bier,

For he to every Grace, and every Muse was dearl

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 rapt in solemn thought, and pleasing wo,

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 :

And see the Furies through the fiery air

O'er Cambria's frighten'd land the screams of horror bear!

Now led by playful Fancy's hand

O'er the white surge he treads with printless feet, To magic shores he flies and fairy land,

Imagination's blest retreat.

Here roses paint the crimson way,

No setting sun, eternal May,

Wild as the priestess of the Thracian fane,
When Bacchus leads the maddening train,

His bosom glowing with celestial fire,
To harmony he struck the golden lyre;

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! By thee attended, pensive would he stray,

Where Thames soft-murmuring laves his winding shore.

Thou badst him raise the moralizing song,

Through life's new seas the little bark to steer: The winds are rude and high, the sailor young; Thoughtless he spies no furious tempest near, Till to the Poet's hand the helm you gave, From hidden rocks an infant crew to save!

Ye Fiends who rankle in the human heart,
Delight in wo, and triumph in our tears,
Resume again

Your dreadful reign;

Prepare the iron scourge, prepare the venom'd dart, Adversity no more with lenient air appears :

The snakes that twine around her head

Again their frothy poison shed;

For who can now her whirlwind flight control,

Her threatening rage beguile ?

He who could still the tempest of her soul,

And force her livid lips to smile,

To happier seats is fled!

Now seated by his Thracian Sire,
At the full feast of mighty Jove
To heavenly themes attunes his lyre,

And fills with harmony the realms above!

ODE XXIX.

TO

THE RIGHT HON. THE LADY ****,

ON THE DEATH OF HER SON.

BY MR. H.

WHILE you 'mid Spring's gay months deplore, Till lessening Grief's exhausted store,

By Time subsiding, fail:

The Muse, Affliction's constant friend,
With social wo shall still attend,
If aught her aid avail.

'Tis hers in life's most ruffled scene
To smooth Misfortune's angry mien,
And watch each rising sigh:
'Tis hers to bid the Guilty fear,
To wipe the virtuous starting tear,
That swells in Sorrow's eye.

'Mid simple Scythia's dreary land Her gentle, sweet, assuasive hand Could give sad Ovid rest;