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A simple song, a sigh profound.
1 There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ;
And calm Religion shall repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

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Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent

stream Reflects new glories on his breast, Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest; Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace Unite to stamp the beauties of the place; While, sweetly blending, still are seen The wavy lawn, the sloping green;

1 These four lines, with some alteration, taken from Collins's Ode in the year 1746.

While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene :
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn, a rural band complain’d.
2 All whom Augusta's bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain'd;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in homespun gray,
The military boy, the orphan’d maid,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd, -
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And, as they view the towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.


Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form’d your beauties is no more.


First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form’d the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,

many a tear, and many a sigh between :

2 All that on Granta's fruitful plain
Rich streams of regal bounty pour’d.

Gray's Inst. Ode, st. iv.

• And where,' he cried, shall now my babes have
Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? [bread,
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require:
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,
A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, used to flow,
And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew.'


In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen,
Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.
• And ah!' she cries, all woebegone,
• What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity ?
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my mistress known;
She still reliev’d, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless,
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long.'


Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song;
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.


The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart:
Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd, .
At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast.
• Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O’er Afric's sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow'd main:
But every danger felt before,
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay
Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave !
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where


limbs were lost.'.




• Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right:
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.


In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid;
Affliction, o'er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty's aid:
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charm’d the senses,
While pity harmonized the whole.
“The garland of beauty' ('tis thus she would say)
• No more shall my crook or my temples adorn;
I'll not wear a garland, — Augusta 's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return.
But, alas ! that return I never shall see:
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim.
There promised a lover to come; but, oh me!
'Twas death, 'twas the death of my mistress, that


But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

8 These lines altered from Collins's Ode on the Death of Col. Ross.

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