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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.
AIR. CHORUS POMPOSO.
Let us, let all the world agree,
Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream
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 bard 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.
CHORUS AFFETUOSO, LARGO.
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, With many a tear, and many a sigh between,
1 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 bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire? 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 woe begone,
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.
SONG BY A WOMAN.
Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
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 my limbs were lost.
SONG. BY A MAN BASSO SPIRITUOSO.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
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 charms 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 came. But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
3 These lines altered from Collins's Ode on the Death of Col. Ross.