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LIX.

THOMSON'S GRAVE.

COLLINS.

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 whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid;

That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love, through life, the soothing shade.

→ Thomson died on the 27th of August, 1748.

Line 6th, The harp of Eolus, of which there is a description in the "Castle of Indolence."

Then maids and youths shall linger here;
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem, in Pity's ear,

To hear the woodland Pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

When Thames in summer-wreaths is drest;

And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest.

And oft, as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Our tears, which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Line 11th, Richmond Church.

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Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near! With him, sweet bard! may fancy die,

And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green-hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend.

And, see! the fairy valleys fade,

Dun night has veiled the solemn view;

Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek nature's child, again adieu !

The genial meads, assigned to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Thy hinds, and shepherd-girls, shall dress,

With simple hands thy rural tomb.

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Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay, Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes;

O vales, and wild woods, (shall he say,) In yonder grave your Druid lies!

LX.

FRAGMENT.

THOMPSON CALLENDAR.

DARK is the night, and loud the wind,
The snow in heavy flakes descending;
And, like the friendship of mankind,
Beneath each blast my roof is bending.

An aching head, and anxious heart,
The levities of rhyme disdain;

Can sounds tranquillity impart
To age, and penury, and pain?

Almighty Father! stretch thine arm
In mercy o'er this trembling shed,
Our home hath lost each humble charm,

For health, and peace, and hope, are fled.

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