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The red-breast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or inidst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell: Each lonely scene shall thee restore;

For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved, till life can charm no more;

And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.




The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed to

lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

1. IN yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,

To deck its poet's sylvan grave!


In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds,

His airy harp* shall now be laid ; That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade.

• The harp of Æolus, of which ste a description in

The Castle Turlolence.

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Then maids and youths shall linger hera

And while its sounds at distance swel, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.


Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in sumer wreaths is drests And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest!


And oft as Ease and licalth retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whiteningt spise,

And 'mid the varied landscape weep.


But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,

Ah! what will every dirge avail ! Or tears which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail !


Yet lives there one, whose heedless

eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near; With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,

And Joy desert the blooining year.


But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide

No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side,

Whose cold turf hides the buried friend !

+ Richmond Churcb.


And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's child, again adieu !


•The genial meads, assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom !
There hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
• vales, and wild woods! shall he say,

In yonder grave your Druid lies!'


Written on a Paper which contained a Prece

of Bride-cake. Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,

By search profane shall find this hallow'd cake, With virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,

Nor dare a theft for love and pity's sake. This precious relic, form’d by magic power,

Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid,
Was meant by love to charm the silent hour,

The secret present of a matchless maid.
The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request,

Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;
Pears, sighs, and wishes of th'enamour'd breast,
And pains that please, are mixt in every part.
• Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond

sumie time before his death.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,

From Paphian hills, and fair Cytherea's isle ; And temper'd sweet with these the melting thought,

The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile.

Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,

Denials mild, and firm unalter'd truth; Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,

And meeting ardeurs, and exulting youth.

Sleep, wayward god! hath sworn, while these remain,

With flastering dreanss to dry his nightly tear, And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,

With fairy songs shall sooth his pensive ear.

If, bound by vows to Friendship’s gentle side

And fond of soul, thou hop'st an equal grace, If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,

0, much entreated, leave this fatal place! Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plaintive lay.

Conscnts at length to bring me short delight; Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,

And grief with raven note usurp the night,





HOME! thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long

Have seen thee liny'ring with a fond delay,

Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future day Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.

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Gn, not unmindful of that cordial youth,*

Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth,

And joy untainted, with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast

My short-lived bliss, forget my social name;
But think, far off, how, on the southern coast,

I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where ev'ry vale
prompt the poet, and his


demand : To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail ;

Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land


Shere must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;

'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;

Where still,'tis said, the fairy peuple meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There each trim lass, that skims the milky store,

To the swart tribes their creamy bowls allots; By night they sip it round the cottage door,

While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. There, every herd, by sad experience, knows

How, wing'd with Fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain: [neglect :

Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain;

These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding


• A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced

Home to Collins.

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