LOS'D is that curious ear, by Death's cold hand,
That mark'd each error of my careless strain
With kind severity; to whom my Mufe
Still lov'd to whisper, what she meant to fing
In louder accent; to whofe tafte fupreme
She first and laft appeal'd, nor wifh'd for praife,
Save when his fmile was herald to her fame.
Yes, thou art gone; yet Friendfhip's fault'ring tongue
Invokes thee ftill; and ftill, by Fancy footh'd,
Fain would fhe hope her GRAY attends the call.
Why then, alas! in this my fav'rite haunt
Place I the Urn, the Buft, the fculptur'd Lyre,⚫
Or fix this votive tablet, fair inscrib'd
With numbers worthy thee, for they are thine?
Why, if thou hear'ft me ftill, these symbols fad
Of fond memorial? Ah! my pensive foul!
He hears me not, nor ever more shall hear
The theme his candour, not his tafte approv'd.
Oft, fmiling as in fcorn,' oft would he cry, "Why wafte thy numbers on a trivial art,
"That ill can mimic even the humblest charms
"Of all-majeftic Nature?" at the word
His eye would gliften, and his accents glow
With all the Poet's frenzy," Sov'reign Queen!
"Behold, and tremble, while thou view'ft her state
"Thron'd on the heights of Skiddaw: call thy art
"To build her fuch a throne; that art will feel
"How vain her beft pretenfions. Trace her march
"Amid the purple craggs of Borrowdale;
"And try like thofe to pile thy range of rock
"In rude tumultuous chaos. See! fhe mounts
"Her Naiad car, and, down Lodore's dread cliff
"Falls many a fathom, like the headlong Bard
"My fabling fancy plung'd in Conway's flood; "Yet not like him to fink in endless night :
"For, on its boiling bofom, ftill fhe guides
"Her buoyant fhell, and leads the wave along;
"Or spreads it broad, a river, or a lake,
“As suits her pleasure; will thy boldeft fong
"E'er brace the finews of enervate art
"To fuch dread daring? will it ev❜n direct
"Her hand to emulate thofe fofter charms
"That deck the banks of Dove, or call to birth "The bare romantic craggs, and copfes green,
"That fidelong grace her circuit, whence the rills, 45
Bright in their cryftal purity, defcend
"To meet their fparkling Queen ? around each fount
"The haw-thorns croud, and knit their bloffom'd sprays
"To keep their fources facred. Here, even here,
ઠં Thy art, each active finew stretch'd in vain,
"Would perish in its pride. Far rather thou
"Confefs her feanty power, correct, controul,
“Tell her how far, nor farther, fhe may go;
"And rein with Reason's curb fantastic Taste."
Yes I will hear thee, dear lamented Shade, And hold each dictate facred. What remains Unfung fhall fo each leading rule select
As if still guided by thy judgment fage;
While, as ftill modell'd to thy curious ear,
Flow my melodious numbers; fo fhall praise,
If ought of praise the verse I weave may claim,
From juft Pofterity reward my fong.
Erewhile to trace the path, to form the fence,
To mark the deftin'd limits of the lawn,
The Mufe, with meafur'd ftep, preceptive, pac'd. 63
Now from the furface with impatient flight
She mounts, Sylvanus! o'er thy world of fhade
To spread her pinions. Open all thy glades,
Greet her from all thy echoes. Orpheus-like,
Arm'd with the fpells of harmony she comes,
To lead thy forefts forth to lovelier haunts,
Where Fancy waits to fix them; from the dell
Where now they lurk fhe calls them to poffefs
Confpicuous ftations; to their varied forms
Allots congenial place; felects, divides,
And blends anew in one Elyzian fcene.
Yet, while I thus exult, my weak tongue
Its ineffectual powers, and feeks in vain
That force of antient phrase which, speaking, paints,
And is the thing it fings. Ah Virgil! why,
By thee neglected, was this loveliest theme
Left to the grating voice of modern reed?
Why not array it in the fplendid robe
Of thy rich diction, and confign the charge
To Fame thy hand-maid, whofe immortal plume
Had born its praise beyond the bounds of Time?
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