"Twas not thy voice, my buried friend!-Oh, no:
Twas not, O ******, the murmur of thy trees;
But at the thought I feel my bosom glow,
And woo the dream whose air-drawn shadows
please.

And I can think I see the groves again,
The larches that yon peaceful roof embower,
The airy down, the castle-speckled plain,

And the slant sunshine on the village tower. And I can think I hear its sabbath chime

Come smoothly soften'd down the woody vale; Or mark on yon lone eminence sublime,

Fast whirling in the wind the white mill's sail. Phantom! that by my bed dost beckoning glide;

Spectre of Death! to the damp charnel hie; Thy dim pale hand, thy fostering visage hide; Thou comest to say, 'I with thy worms shall lie!'

Thou comest to say that my once vacant mind Amid those scenes shall never more rejoice; Nor on the day of rest the hoary hind

Bend o'er his staff, attentive to my voice!

Hast thou not visited that pleasant place
Where in this hard world I have happiest been;
And shall I tremble at thy lifted mace,

That hath pierced all on which life seem'd to
lean?

But Hope might whisper,- Many a smiling day And many a cheerful eve might yet be mine, Ere age's autumn strew my locks with gray, And weary to the dust my steps decline.'

I argue not, but uncomplaining bow

To Heaven's high hest; secure, whate'er my lot, Meek spirit of resign'd Content, that thou

Wilt smooth my pillow, and forsake me not.

Thou to the turfy hut with pilgrim feet

Wanderest from halls of loud tumultuous joy; Or on the naked down, when the winds beat, Dost sing to the forsaken shepherd boy.

Thou art the sick man's nurse, the poor man's friend, And through each change of life thou hast been mine;

In every ill thou canst a comfort blend,

And bid the eye, though sad, in sadness shine.

Thee I have met on Cherwell's willow'd side; And when our destined road far onward lay, Thee I have found, whatever chance betide,

The kind companion of my devious way.

With thee unwearied have I loved to roam

By the smooth-flowing Scheldt or rushing Rhine; And thou hast gladden'd my sequester'd home, And hung my peaceful porch with eglantine.

When cares and crosses my tired spirits tried,
When to the dust my father I resign'd;
Amidst the quiet shade unseen I sigh'd,

And, bless'd with thee, forgot a world unkind.

Even now, while toiling through the sleepless night,
A tearful look to distant scenes I cast,
And the glad objects that once charm'd my sight
Remember, like soft views of faerie pass'd;

I see thee come half-smiling to my bed,
With Fortitude more awfully severe,

Whose arm sustaining holds my drooping head,
Who dries with her dark locks the tender tear.

O firmer spirit! on some craggy height

Who, when the tempest sails aloft, dost stand, And hearest the ceaseless billows of the night Rolling upon the solitary strand;

At this sad hour, when no harsh thoughts intrude
To mar the melancholy mind's repose,
When I am left to night and solitude,

And languid life seems verging to its close;

O, let me thy pervading influence feel!

Be every weak and wayward thought repress'd! And hide thou, as with plates of coldest steel, The faded aspect and the throbbing breast.

Silent the motley pageant may retreat,

And vain mortality's brief scenes remove; Yet let my bosom, whilst with life it beat, Breathe a last prayer for all on earth I love.

Slow creeping pain weighs down my heavy eye,
A chiller faintness steals upon my breast;
'O, gentle Muse, with some sweet lullaby *'
Rock me in long forgetfulness to rest.

BOWLES.

* See Dr. Harington's exquisite air to the words:

Come, gentle Muse, lall me to sleep
With some sweet harmony!

ELEGY.

DISASTROUS man! sad child of Pain and Grief!
And scarce from Death expecting late relief!
Days, months, and years in black succession flow,
Mark'd only by variety of woe:

E'en the soft virtues which thy bosom fill
Inflict a wound, and terminate in ill:

Rest from the parent's anxious pillow flies,
Sweet Pity weeps, and Love is breathed in sighs!
The wretch to every tender passion steel'd,
Fierce as the storm, unknowing how to yield,
Falls by a just decree, and cold disdain
May swell his sorrows, and deride his pain.
The portion which he dealt let him receive:
He who made others mourn himself must grieve.
But ah, the gentle breast, still prompt to share
Another's woe, another's pain to bear;

The heart, with anguish torn, which for mankind
Still beats responsive, patient, and resign'd!
Shall not for him, dissolved in kindred woe,
The conscious virgin give her tears to flow?
Shall not the Muse for him, the gentle Muse,
(She favours still the good) sweet numbers choose?
Such as assuaged the grief, old fables say,
Of that prophetic God who rules the day,
When, late repenting, in the guilty shade,
He mourn'd the murder'd Larissaan maid.
(Fictions like these would mighty bards rehearse,
Who veil'd immortal truths with mystic verse.)
Or as, in pity to the youth she bore,
Calliopeia breathed on Hebrus' shore,

When, for the nymph beloved, alas, too well,
(Not long can Mercy bind the powers of hell)
Proud Rhodope, whose towering front of snow
Feeds with rich streams the flowery vales below,
Hæmus whose glens no sultry beams invade,
So thick his forests weave their ancient shade,
And high Pangea sent their virgin choir
To mourn responsive to the' Orphéan lyre.

To the sick mind, by sorrow wearied long,
How soothing is the balm of plaintive song!
Lives there a youth by fond affection led

To haunt the gloomy mansions of the dead;
O'er the raised turf with throbbing breast to bend,
And call in vain a mistress or a friend;
Some gentle victim of parental pride
Dragg'd to the altar, a reluctant bride;
Or faithful lover, whose capricious fair
With sudden change condemns him to despair,
Arms her relentless brow with cold disdain,
And renders years of truth and service vain;
These o'er the verse which seeks no aid from art,
But flows unbidden from a wounded heart,
Shall mix congenial tears, and sighing own
That pain and sorrow are not theirs alone.
The tears from generous sympathy which flow
May yield a short oblivion of their woe.
That gentle hope shall consecrate the strain.
These mournful lays have not been sung in vain.
EARL OF CARYSFORT.