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Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!


Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn where weary travellers,
When they have journey'd througha world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity.
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance:
For as the line of life conducts me on
To death's great court, the prospect seems more fair,
'Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline :Where wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.

And ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,
May peace that claim'd while here thy warmest
love, May blissful endless peace be thine above.


Lovely lasting Peace below,
Comforter of every woe,
Heavenly born and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky;
Lovely lasting Peace, appear,
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.


Our vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes,

Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:

Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell,

Want pass'd for merit at her door,

Unseen the modest were supplied,

Her constant pity fed the poor

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.

And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy shrine,

And art exhausts profusion round,

The tribute of a tear be mine,

f 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.


Let us, let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.




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 sulptur'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 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.


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,
Wh ise callous hand had form'd the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear, and many a sigh between,

'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,

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