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Yes,—these survive to time's remotest day; While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay, Reader, if number'd in the Muse's train, Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ; But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, Depart in peace; and imitate the man.

d 2.







THE village-bell tolls out the note of death, And through the echoing air, the length’ning found, With dreadful pause, reverberating deep; Spreads the sad tidings, o'er fair Auburn's vale. There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had prais’d In all the sweet fimplicity of song, Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequefter'd sat, And herded jocund with the harmless swains : But when she heard the fate-forboding knell,


With startled step, precipitate and swift,
And look pathetic, full of dire presage,
The church-way walk, beside the neighb’ring green,
Sorrowing the fought; and there, in black array,
Borne on the shoulders of the fwains he lov’d,
She saw the boast of Auburn mov'd along.
Touch'd at the view, her pensive breast The struck,
And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs
With leaning slope, and branch irregular,
O’er the moss’d pillars of the sacred fane,
The briar-bound graves fhadowing with funeral

gloom, Forlorn she hied; and there the crowding woe (Swell’d by the parent) press’d on bleeding thought, Big ran the drops from her maternal eye, Fast broke the bosom-forrow from her heart, And pale Distress, fat fickly on her cheek, As thus her plaintive Elegy began.

And must my children all expire ?
Shall none be left to strike the lyre ?
Courts Death alone a learned prize ?
Falls his shafts only on the wife?
Can no fit marks on earth be found,
From useless thousands swarming round:

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What crowding cyphers cram the land!
What hosts of victims, at command !
Yet shall th’ ingenious drop alone ?
Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne ?
Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train !
I charge thee, with my children lain!

Scarce has the sun thrice urg'd his annual tour, Since half my race have felt thy barbarous power ;

Sore haft thou thinn'd each pleasing art,
And struck a muse with every dart :

Bard, after bard, obey'd thy slaughtering call,
Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall.

Then let a widow'd mother pay
The tribute of a parting lay.

Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain,
And speak aloud, her feelings, and her pain !

And first, farewel to thee, my son, she cried,
Thou pride of Auburn's dale--sweet bard, farewel,

Long Long for thy fake, the peasants tear shall Aow, And many a virgin-bosom heave with woe, For thee shall forrow sadden all the scene, And every pastime, perish on the green ; The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale, The woodman's ballad shall no more regale, No more shall Mirth, each rustic sport inspire, But every frolic, every feat shall tire. No more the evening gambol shall delight, Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night, But groupes of villagers (each joy forgot) Shall form, a sad assembly round the cot. Sweet bard, farewel_and farewel, Auburn's bliss, The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss ; The evening warble Philomela made, The echoing forest, and the whispering shade, The winding brook, the bleat of brute content, And the blithe voice that " whistled as it went." These shall no longer charm the plowman's care, But fighs shall fill, the pauses of despair.

GOLDSMITH adieu! the “ book-learn'd priest"

for thee Shall now in vain possess his festive glee, d 4


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