ЕРІТАРН ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS. Written at the request of Mr. Frederick Montagu, who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which, Sir W. Williams was killed, 1761. HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, Young Williams fought for England's fair renown; His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd his frame, Nor envy dar'd to view him with a frown. At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew, There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew, And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field. With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast, Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps. DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALL R.A. ENGRAVED BY EDWP PORTBURY PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY, DEC. 1.1820. ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death? |