THE ADIEU—TO A FAVOURITE GROVE.
Whilst dreary Winter clothes the Landscape round,
And sober Eve her dusky mantle veers;
Here let me studious on this rising mound
Recline, and give to yonder stream my tears.
Yon pleasing plain, yon sweetly swelling hill,
Which oft with rapture did my eyes invite;
Yon dale irriguous, and yon purling rill
Shall soon be vanish’d to my ravish’d sight.
Yon shady bow’rs wherein I oft was wont,
With sportive youths to spend some votive hours,
Yon splendid mansion, and yon lovely font,
No more are cheer’d by Sol’s refulgent pow’rs.
This lovely dome, this academic shade,
This pleasing grove, O! I must bid adieu;
But still each image shall be bright pourtray’d,
Rush on the Muse in pleasing fancied view;
Yes, yes, tho’ to those scenes I bid farewel,
In ocular sight perchance to view no more;
Yet the mind’s eye shall ever pleasing dwell,
And paint each beauty with extatic lore.
An Elegy to the Memory of a Friend.
When worthless grandeur swells the trump of fame,
And venal titles on the marble shine,
To breathe its tribute to a worthy name,
Should not the task, O, generous muse, be thine.
If e’er the breast with pity prone to bleed,
The gentle feelings, or the judgment strong,
Deserv’d, sweet maid, the tribute of thy meed;
’Tis due to him to whom these lines belong.
Lamented shade! by thee was once possest
Whate’er has genius on her sons bestow’d;
The smoothest manners, and the tend’rest breast,
The tonge, whence wisdom’s purest dictates flow’d!
’Twas thine, the seeds of modest worth to rear,
And from misfortune’s brow the cloud to chace,
Of poverty the lonely cot to cheer.
And to the troubled spirit whisper peace.
Of truth thou boldly strove to spread the reign,
Of superstition’s night disperse the gloom,
To virtue’s noblest exercises train,
And for a brighter world the soul to plume.
But ah! full fast our sickly comforts fade,
The brightest prospects bloom but to decay:
Too soon for us heaven bade disease invade,
And call’d to its bless’d scenes thy soul away.
No more we hear thy voice, with comfort fraught,
Nor in thy harmless wit soft pleasure find:
Mule is that tongue, the noblest truths that taught,
And cold the breast that warm’d for human kind.
Yet ne’er shall time thy fond remembrance raze,
Thy worth shall live in ev’ry virtuous breast;
The spotless purity that mark’d thy days,
A lasting epitaph hath there imprest.
Full oft at eve, while social circles meet,
And cheat with various lore the passing hour;
With pensive eyes we mark thy vacant seat,
And thy lost converse fruitlessly deplore.
Tho’ thy instructive voice no more we hear,
Thy blameless life shall not unuseful teach;
Thy gentle virtues, in remembrance dear,
Shall yet thro’ many a day persuasive preach.