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THE MEMORY

OF THE

AUTHOR OF THE VILLAGE CURATE.

SWEET Bard, whose pencil could with Nature's vie,
To thee shall no kind friend one tribute pay?
And shall the ground, where thy cold relics lie,
Be still unhallow'd by the Muse's lay?

Yet not inglorious in thy coffin sleeps

[soul:

With thee that song, whose beauty charms the

Still shall the virgin, as with thee she weeps,
O'er all her senses own thy soft control.

While Pity reads the tributary verse

Thy hand inscrib'd upon a sister's bier, Fancy shall view the slow-proceeding hearse, And with the mourner's mix her sacred tear:

Shall feel, when dust on dust is thrown, the sound Strike deep on each warm fibre of the heart, And tell with solemn voice to all around, [part. "That hour must come when love from love must

Yet shall thy muse excite by turns to joy,

And to the mind her fairer views disclose: For why should sorrow all our thoughts employ, Why waste our years in unavailing woes?

TO THE MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR. 155 With thee, sweet bard, we tread thy village lawn, And taste each pleasure of thy rural scene;

Mark with thy raptur'd eye the flecker'd dawn, When June's gay month has deck'd the world

in green:

And then when Evening comes, a pilgrim sad, Each livelier tint of Nature's face to shroud; While rising slow, in silver mantle clad,

The moon hangs pillow'd on an eastern cloud;

We hear thy nightingale her anthem raise,
Amidst the stillness of thy quiet grove;
While thine own organ with accordant praise
Swells the loud notes of gratitude and love.

Or in thy study, fill'd with ancient lore,

Where learning smil'd upon thy peaceful hours, We see thee seated midst a numerous store, Culling fresh fragrance from the Muse's flowers:

Or proudly marshalling thy classic bands,
Where all, well rang'd, in guilded liv'ry shine;
As some great leader midst his army stands,
And darts his eye along the goodly line.

O blameless triumph! and O bless'd mankind!
Had the world's victors been content, like thee,
The wreath of science on their brows to bind,

And sought such laurels as with peace agree!

156 TO THE MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR. Far happier thou! of nature's charms to sing, Thine was the lot, from din of arms retir'd; To rise from earth on Contemplation's wing, By Faith, by Hope, by Charity inspir'd. "Twas thine with peace the rural shades to rove,

To taste the bliss domestic life bestows;

To feel the fondness of thy sisters' love,

Their joys to heighten, and to soothe their woes. "Twas thine with these to pass the studious day; To blend with Hurdis, Cowper's honour'd name; To charm his fancy with thy woodland lay,

To share his friendship, and partake his fame. Nor didst thou wake thy heav'nly harp in vain: Tho'cold's the hand that strung th' immortal lyre, Still soft Compassion listens to the strain,

And hangs enchanted o'er the trembling wire.

E'en from the tomb such sweet vibrations ring,

As steal from Princesses the trickling tear; So Love fraternal struck the sorrowing string, That matron Majesty bows down to hear.

And, oh! what jewel on a Prince's brow

Shines like the drop, which Pity's grief betrays? "Tis this that pales the ruby's living glow, And dims the brightness of the diamond's blaze.

P. H. Magd. Coll.

Whittingham and Rowland, Printers,
Goswell Street, London.

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