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"Hail, ye midnight sisters, hail, `
"Drive the shuttle swift along;
"Let your secret charms prevail
"O'er the valiant and the strong,

"O'er the glory of the land,

"O'er the innocent and gay,
"O'er the Muse's tuneful band-

"Weave the fun'ral web of Gray."

'Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of pain,
With ruthless fury and corrosive force,
Racks every joint, and seizes every vein:
He sinks, he groans, he falls a lifeless corse.

Thus fades the flow'r nipp'd by the frozen gale,
Tho' once so sweet, so lovely to the eye:
Thus the tall oaks, when boist'rous storms assail,
Torn from the earth, a mighty ruin lie.

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Ye sacred sisters of the plaintive verse,

Now let the stream of fond affection flow; O pay your tribute o'er the slow-drawn hearse, With all the manly dignity of woe.

Oft when the Curfew tolls its parting knell With solemn pause yon Church-yard's gloom

survey,

While Sorrow's sighs and tears of Pity tell
How just the moral of the Poet's lay [75].

O'er his green grave, in Contemplation's guise,
Oft let the pilgrim drop a silent tear:
Oft let the shepherd's tender accents rise,
Big with the sweets of each revolving year;
Till prostrate Time adore his deathless name,
Fix'd on the solid base of adamantine fame.

[75] Elegy in a Country Church-Yard.

EPITAPH

ON

MR. GRAY's MONUMENT,

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

BY MR. MASON.

No

more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns, To Britain let the nations homage pay!

She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains,
A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of GRAY.

C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer,
Dean Street, Fetter Lane.

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