'But Gratio's dead, and desert is the scene,
Gratio's no more, and every charm's decay'd;
Those joys are fled which gladden'd once the green;
But still fond fancy courts the fleeting shade,
'Still dwells tenacious on those happier hours,
When this lov'd spot with social joys was crown'd;
When health, content, and innocence were ours,
And pour'd the song of happiness around.
'Then the glad houshold his return would greet,
And winning welcome smil'd with accents bland;
The faithful house-dog gambol'd round his feet,
To court attention from his master's hand.
'To clasp his knees the prattling infants ran,
Proud from their sire to catch the earliest kiss;
Oh! I have seen the parent bless the man,
When only tears could speak his secret bliss.
'But now he's dead, the thought demands a tear,
I saw the good man yield his latest breath;
He fell full ripen'd as the autumnal ear,
Swept by the sickle of relentless death.'
"Shepherd," said he, "my day of life is flown;"
'Methinks ev'n now the faultering sound I hear:'
"Lay my cold corse beneath some humble stone,
And let no useless pomp attend my bier."
'We try'd each healing art, but could not save;
We bore his bier, the last sad debt to pay;
No plumy hearse bore Gratio to the grave,
No pompous pile was rear'd around his clay.
'All the sad village followed in the train,
We laid his bones beneath yon yew-tree's shade;
Our village curate grav'd the elegiac strain,
And lo! the stone, the spot in which he's laid.'
