ODE XXVIII. WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY. BY FREDERICK EARL OF CARLISLE. WHAT Spirit's that which mounts on high, 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 ? Or charm to sleep his murderous band ? Well I know thee, gentle shade! That tuneful voice, that eagle eye.— 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, 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, And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow!- 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, His bosom glowing with celestial fire, To harmony each hill and valley rung! 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, 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, 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, 'Tis hers in life's most ruffled scene 'Mid simple Scythia's dreary land Her gentle, sweet, assuasive hand Could give sad Ovid rest; |