And emulation's noble rage alarm,

And the long hours of toil and solitude to charm.
But she, who set on fire his infant heart,
And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shared
And blessed, the Muse, and her celestial art,
Still claim th' enthusiast's fond and first regard.
From Nature's beauties variously compared

And variously combined, he learns to frame
Those forms of bright perfection, which the bard,
While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame,
Enamour'd consecrates to never dying fame.

Of late, with cumbersome, though pompous show,
Edwin would oft his flowery rhyme deface,
Through ardour to adorn; but Nature now

To his experienced eye a modest grave
Presents, where ornament the second place
Holds, to intrinsic worth and just design
Subservient still. Simplicity apace

Tempers his rage he owns her charms divine, [line.
And clears th' ambiguous phrase, and lops the unwieldy

Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains)

What sweet delirium o'er his bosom stole,

When the great shepherd of the Mantuan plainst

His deep majestic melody 'gan roll:

Fain would I sing what transport storm'd his soul,
How the red current throbb'd his veins along,
When, like Pelides, bold beyond control,

Without art graceful, without effort strong,

[song

Homer raised high to Heaven the loud, th' impetuous

And how his lyre, though rude her first essays,
Now skill'd to soothe, to triumph, to complain,
Warbling at will through each harmonious maze,

Was taught to modulate the artful strain,

• See Aristotle's Foetics, and the i-courses of Sir Joshua Reynolds + Virgil.

I fain would sing: but ah! I strive in vain.
Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound
With trembling step, to join yon weeping train
I haste, where gleams funereal glare around,
And mix'd with shrieks of woe, the knells of death
resound.

Adieu, ye lays, that Fancy's flowers adorn,
The soft amusement of the vacant mind!
He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn,
He, whom each virtue fired, each grace refined,
Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind!
He sleeps in dust.* Ah, how shall I pursue
My theme! To heart-consuming grief resign'd,
Here on his recent grave I fix my view,

And pour my bitter tears. Ye flowery lays, adieu!

Art thou, my Gregory, for ever fled!

And am I left to unavailing woe!

When fortune's storms assail this weary head,
Where cares long since have shed untimely snow!
Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go!

No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers:
Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow,
My hopes to cherish and allay my fears.

"Tis meet that I should mourn: flow forth afresh,
my tears.

* This excellent person died suddenly on the 10th of February 1773. The conclusion of the poem was written a few days after.