ELEGY VI.

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS

OF A

NOBLEMAN's SEAT IN CORNWALL.

BY MR. MOORE.

AMIDST these venerable drear remains
Of antient grandeur, musing sad I stray;
Around a melancholy silence reigns,

That prompts me to indulge the plaintive lay.

Here liv'd Eugenio, born of noble race,

Aloft his mansion rose; around were seen

Extensive gardens deck'd with every grace,
Ponds, walks, and groves through all the seasons

green.

Ah, where is now its boasted beauty fled!
Proud turrets that once glitter'd in the sky,
And broken columns in confusion spread,
A rude misshapen heap of ruins lie!

Of splendid rooms no traces here are found:

How are these tottering walls by time defac'd! Shagg'd with vile thorn, with twining ivy bound, Once hung with tapestry, with paintings grac❜d!

In antient times, perhaps, where now I tread,

Licentious Riot crown'd the midnight bowl, Her dainties Luxury pour'd, and Beauty spread Her artful snares to captivate the soul.

Or here, attended by a chosen train

Of innocent delight, true Grandeur dwelt, Diffusing blessings o'er the distant plain, Health, joy, and happiness by thousands felt.

Around now Solitude unjoyous reigns,

No gay-gilt chariot hither marks the way, No more with cheerful hopes the needy swains At the once-bounteous gate their visits pay.

Where too is now the garden's beauty fled,
Which every clime was ransack'd to supply?
O'er the drear spot see desolation spread,
And the dismantled walls in ruins lie!

Dead are the trees that once with nicest care Arrang'd, from opening blossoms shed perfume, And thick with fruitage stood, the pendent pear, The ruddy-color'd peach, and glossy plumb.

Extinct is all the family of flowers:

In vain I seek the arbor's cool retreat,

Where antient friends in converse pass'd the hours, Defended from the raging dog-star's heat.

Along the terrace-walks are straggling seen
The prickly bramble, and the noisome weed,

Beneath whose covert crawls the toad obscene,
And snakes and adders unmolested breed.

The groves, where Pleasure walk'd her rounds, decay,

The mead untill'd a barren aspect wears;

And where the sprightly fawn was wont to play,
O'ergrown with heath, a dreary waste appears.

In yonder wide-extended vale below,

Where osiers spread, a pond capacious stood; From far, by art the stream was taught to flow, Whose liquid stores, supplied th' unfailing flood.

Oft here the silent angler took his place,
Intent to captivate the scaly fry—

But perish'd now are all the numerous race,
Dumb is the fountain, and the channel dry.

Here then, ye Great! behold th' uncertain state
Of earthly grandeur-beauty, strength, and power,
Alike are subject to the stroke of fate,

And flourish but the glory of an hour.

Virtue alone no dissolution fears,

Still permanent, tho' ages roll away; Who builds on her immortal basis, rears

A superstructure time can ne'er decay.

THE peaceful Evening breathes her balmy store, The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green; Where spreading poplars shade the cottage-door, The villagers in rustic joy convene.

Amid the secret windings of the wood,
With solemn meditation let me stray;
This is the hour, when, to the wise and good,
The heavenly Maid repays the toils of day.

The river murmurs, and the breathing gale
Whispers the gently waving boughs among,
The star of evening glimmers o'er the dale,
And leads the silent host of heaven along.