But more respectful views th' historic sage, He pensive oft reviews the mighty dead, Rest, gentle RIVERS! and ill-fated GRAY! Ah! what avail'd th' alliance of a throne ? The pomp of titles what, or pow'r rever'd ? Happier! to these the humble life unknown, With virtue honor'd, and by peace endear'd. Had thus the sons of bleeding Britain thought, When hapless here inglorious RICHARD lay, Yet many a prince, whose blood full dearly bought The shameful triumph of the long-fought day : Yet many a hero, whose defeated hand In death resign'd the well contested field, Ill could the Muse indignant grief forbear, Should Mem'ry trace her bleeding Country's woes; Ill could she count, without a bursting tear, Th' inglorious triumphs of the vary'd Rose ! While YORK, with conquest and revenge elate, Ah prince! unequal to the toils of war, To stem ambition, Faction's rage to quell ; Happier! from these had Fortune plac'd thee far, In some lone convent, or some peaceful cell. For what avail'd that thy victorious queen In vain fair Vict❜ry beam'd the gladd'ning eye, Let Towton's field-but cease the dismal tale; The Patriot's exile, or the Hero's fall. Thus silver wharf, whose crystal-sparkling urn Reflects the brilliance of his blooming shore, Still, melancholy-mazing, seems to mourn, But rolls, confus'd, a crimson wave no more. ELEGY IV. NETLEY ABBEY. BY GEORGE KEATE, ESQ. A Halcyon Calm has lull'd the watʼry plain, Th' unmoving canvass flags beside the Mast, The gliding Bark scarce cleaves th' unruffled main, Tho' fond Impatience bids each Zephyr haste.— Such stillnesss yields the gen'ral hour of rest; Now light upsprings the breeze, the sails unfold, And each broad shore and forest seems to move. I hail at last these Shades, this well-known Wood, That skirts with verdant slope the barren strand, Where NETLEY'S Ruins, bord'ring on the flood, Forlorn in melancholy Greatness stand. How chang'd, alas! from that rever'd abode Now sunk, deserted, and with weeds o'ergrown, The ivy now with rude luxuriance bends Its tangled foliage through the cloister'd space, O'er the green Window's mould'ring height ascends, And fondly clasps it with a last embrace. Where burn the gorgeous Altar's lasting fires? No more shall Charity, with sparkling eyes Befriends the Wretched, and relieves the Poor |