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How loved ! how honour'd thou! yet be not vain:
And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say, All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain,
On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay. What from contending cities did he gain?
And what rewards his grateful country pay? None, none were paid ; why then all this for me? These honours, Homer, had been just to thee.
THOMAS TICKELL. 1686–1740.
COLIN AND LUCY.
Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Reflect so sweet a face:
Impair'd her rosy hue,
And eyes of glossy blue.
When beating rains descend ?
Her life now near its end.
Take heed, ye easy fair :
Ye perjured swains, beware.
A bell was heard to ring;
The raven Aapp'd his wing.
The solemn boding sound:
The virgins weeping round:
“I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay ;
Which beckons me away.
In early youth I die:
Was thrice as rich as I ?
Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone :
Nor think him all thy own.
Impatient, both prepare !
That Lucy will be there! “ Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,
This bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding-trim so gay,
I in my winding-sheet." She spoke, she died, her corse was borne
The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding-trim so gay,
She in her winding sheet.
How were these nuptials kept ?
And all the village wept.
At once his bosom swell :
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
The varying crimson fled,
She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling swains,
For ever he remains.
Oft at this grave the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen;
They deck the sacred green:
This hallow'd spot forbear;
And fear to meet him there.
TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON,
Can I forget the dismal night that gave
kings! What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, And the last words that dust to dust convey'd ! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.
Oh, gone for ever; take this long adieu ;
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
In what new region to the just assign'd, What new employments please the unbodied mind? A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly? 01 curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze ? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled and the dragon fell; Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind ?
Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
That awful form, which, so the heavens decree,
song : There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe; There taught us how to live ; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, Reard by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race, Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears ! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy noontide shadow and thy evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd, Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade.
From other hills, however Fortune frown'd, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found :