« AnteriorContinuar »
XIX. On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er, And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand ---Thou weep'it already, as I were no more, Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
XX. Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare, Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, Tho' I am dead my soul shall love thee ftill.
XXI. Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed, Or thou wilt die, fo tender is thy heart ! O leave me, Delia ! ere thou see me dead, These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
XXII. Let them, extended on the decent bier, Convey the corse in melancholy state, Thro' all the village spread the tender tear, While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
III. What boots it then, in every clime, Thro' the wide spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still Thone with undiminish'd blaze ? Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage, and rancour fell.
IV. The rural pipe, and merry lay No more shall chear the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains, but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.
Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,
VI. The pious mother doom'd to death, Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath. The bleak wind whistles round her head; Her helpless orphans cry for bread, Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend, And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
VII. Whilft the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns; Refentment of my country's fate, Within
filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My fympathizing verse fhall flow, “ Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn “ Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.
AN EL E G Y.
HE Curfeu tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow'r, Moleft her ancient folitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, thatyew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 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 busy houswife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.