But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre, The paths of glory lead but to the grave.' And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing mind Mourn'd o'er the simple rustic's turfy cell, To strew his tomb no grateful mourner find, No village swain to ring one parting knell ? Yes, honour'd shade! the fringed brook I'll trace, Green rushes culling thy dank grave to strew; With mountain flow'rs I'll deck the hallow'd place, And fence it round with osiers mix'd with yew. THE TEARS OF GENIUS: AN ODE. By Mr. Taite. ON Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'd fane Where oft the Muse has led the favourite swain, Beneath the covert of the sylvan shade, Where deadly cypress, mix'd with mournful yew, Far o'er the vale a gloomy stillness spread, Celestial Genius burst upon the view. The bloom of youth, the majesty of years, In her fair hand a silver harp she bore, Whose magic notes, soft-warbling from the string, Give tranquil joy the breast ne'er knew before, Or raise the soul on rapture's airy wing. By grief impell'd, I heard her heave a sigh, While thus the rapid strain resounded through the sky; G Haste, ye sister powers of song, Where, indulging mirthful pleasures, For graver strains prepare the plaintive lyre, The blissful Muse, whose favouring smile In Transport's radiant garments drest, With cool regard their various arts employ, Ha! what forms, with port sublime,+ Glide along in sullen mood, They seize their harps, they strike the lyre With rapid hand, with freedom's fire. Obedient Nature hears the lofty sound, [sound. And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains re In pomp of state, behold they wait, With arms outstretch'd, and aspects kind, The child of Fancy left behind: By rapture's blaze impell'd, they swell the artless lay. Her baleful gifts profusely pours. Behold she comes, the fiend forlorn, Array'd in Horror's settled gloom; She strews the briar and prickly thorn, And triumphs in th' infernal doom. With frantic fury and insatiate rage [ing page. She gnaws the throbbing breast and blasts the glow No more the soft Æolian flute+ Breathes through the heart the melting strain; The powers of Harmony are mute, And leave the once-delightful plain; With heavy wing, I see them beat the air, Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless Despair. Yet stay, O! stay, celestial pow'rs, Dispel the boist'rous storm that lours Destructive on the fav'rite bard; O watch with me his last expiring breath, [death. And snatch him from the arms of dark, oblivious Hark! the Fatal Sisters join, And with Horror's mutt'ring sounds, Weave the tissue of his line, While the dreadful spell resounds. Hymn to Adversity. + The Progress of Poesy. Hail, ye midnight sisters, hail! 'O'er the glory of the land, 'Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of pain, Thus fades the flow'r nipp'd by the frozen gale, Ye sacred sisters of the plaintive verse, Oft when the curfew tolls its parting knell With solemn pause yon Church-yard's gloom survey, O'er his green grave, in Contemplation's guise, Big with the sweets of each revolving year; Elegy in a Country Church-yard. |