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SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS.
Written at the request of Mr. Frederick Montagu, who in
tended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which, Sir W. Williams' was killed, 1761.
HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,
Young Williams fought for England's fair renown; His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn’d his frame,
Nor envy dar'd to view him with a frown.
At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,
There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew,
And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field.
With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast,
Victor he stood on Bellisle's rocky steepsAb, gallant youth! this marble tells the rest,
Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps.
DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALL RA. ENGRAVED BY EDWP PORTBURY PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY;
A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around,
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more sball rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team afield !
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy strokes
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise,
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?