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ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S DEATH. li

Yes, these furvive to time's remotest day;
While drops the buft, and boaftful 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.

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[ii]

COMMENDATORY VERSES.

EXTRACT FROM AN ELEGANT POEM WRITTEN

BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ.

ON THE DEATH OF EMINENT ENGLISH POETS.

THE TEARS OF GENIUS.

THE village-bell tolls out the note of death,

And through the echoing air, the length'ning found,
With dreadful paufe, reverberating deep;

Spreads the fad tidings, o'er fair Auburn's vale.
There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had prais'd
In all the sweet fimplicity of fong,
GENIUS, in pilgrim garb, fequefter'd fat,
And herded jocund with the harmless fwains:
But when she heard the fate-forboding knell,

With

With ftartled step, precipitate and swift,
And look pathetic, full of dire prefage,

The church-way walk, befide the neighb'ring green,
Sorrowing the fought; and there, in black array,
Borne on the shoulders of the swains he lov'd,
She faw the boast of Auburn mov'd along.
Touch'd at the view, her penfive breast she struck,
And to the cyprefs, which incumbent hangs
With leaning flope, and branch irregular,

O'er the mofs'd pillars of the facred fane,

The briar-bound graves fhadowing with funeral gloom,

Forlorn fhe hied; and there the crowding woe
(Swell'd by the parent) prefs'd on bleeding thought,
Big ran the drops from her maternal eye,

Fast broke the bofom-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 ftrike the lyre?
Courts Death alone a learned prize?
Falls his fhafts only on the wife?

Can no fit marks on earth be found,
From useless thousands fwarming round?

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What crowding cyphers cram the land!
What hofts of victims, at command!
Yet fhall th' ingenious drop alone?
Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne ?
Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train!

I charge thee, with my children flain!

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

Sore haft thou thinn'd each pleafing art,

And ftruck a mufe with every

dart:

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

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

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

And firft, farewel to thee, my fon, fhe cried,
Thou pride of Auburn's dale-fweet bard, farewel.

Long

Long for thy fake, the peasants tear fhall flow,
And many a virgin-bofom heave with woe,
For thee fhall forrow fadden all the scene,
And every paftime, perish on the green;
The sturdy farmer fhall fufpend his tale,
The woodman's ballad shall no more regale,
No more shall Mirth, each ruftic sport inspire,
But every frolic, every feat fhall tire.

No more the evening gambol fhall delight,
Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night,
But groupes of villagers (each joy forgot)

Shall form, a fad affembly round the cot.

Sweet bard, farewel-and farewel, Auburn's blifs,
The bafhful lover, and the yielded kifs;
The evening warble Philomela made,

The echoing foreft, and the whispering fhade,
The winding brook, the bleat of brute content,
And the blithe voice that "whiftled as it went."
These shall no longer charm the plowman's care,
But fighs fhall fill, the paufes of defpair.

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

for thee

Shall now in vain poffefs his feftive glee,

d 4

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