Soon falls the monumental bust,
The trophied pillar sinks to dust,
The marble arch and lofty tow'r
Submit to time's resistless pow'r;
The blood-stain'd laurels quickly fade,
The haughty victor's brows that shade;
But, in immortal verdure, bloom
The myrtle wreath that decks the poet's hallow'd tomb.

Fam'd Greece, of art and wealth the boast,
Where now is all thy splendor lost?
Thy domes that seem'd to threat the sky,
In undistinguish'd ruins ly;
Where stood the works of matchless hands
The rude and lonely cottage stands;

PARAPHRASED.

Now has th' Almighty Father, seated high
In ambient glories, from th' eternal throne
Vouchsas'd compassion, and th' afflictive power
Has broke whose iron sceptre long had bruis'd
The groaning nations. Now returning Peace,
Dove-ey'd, and rob'd in white, the blissful land
Deigns to re-visit; whilst beneath her steps
The soil, with civil slaughter oft' manur'd,
Pours forth abundant olives. Their high tops
The cedars wave, exulting o'er thy fall,
Whose steel from the tall monarch of the grove

When gracious Heav'n its precious gifts bestows,
Sense to discern, and Eloquence that glows;
And then its noblest office has design'd —
To teach, exhort, and edify mankind;
When on a summit, sacred, and divine,
(Where pure Religion rears her holy shrine)
The mortal stands — and ev'ry eye shall claim
Some vital spark of the celestial flame;
Oh! then should Vice, with guilty touch, presume
The sacred part of Virtue to assume;
Oh! should she dare, unhallow'd and profane,
T'approach that altar she beholds in vain!

Oh thou! whose mournful lyre can yield relief,
And still is faithful to the notes of grief!
Come pensive Muse! instruct me to reveal
What Nature's doom'd most exquisite to feel.
Teach me, oh plaintive Muse! in soothing strain,
To paint the object of a Mother's pain:
A Husband's poignant anguish to declare —
To paint the young, the virtuous, and the fair!
Snatch'd from those arms, that ever could enfold;
The melting eye, exulting to behold!
The ear that bless'd her, and the heart that knew —
The lovely H ARRIET from the world withdrew!

How Blest are they, who once bewilder'd here,
In mild Devotion finish their career!
Tho' injur'd by the world, forlorn, opprest,
They hear a S AVIOUR'S Voice to give them rest;
And when the path of Life is safely trod,
Can trust in Him , and yield their Souls to God .

LAMENTING THE DEATH OF THE LATE

MARQUIS OF BLANDFORD

Ask not the cause why all the tuneful swains,
Who us'd to fill the vales with tender strains,
In deep despair neglect the warbling reed,
And all their bleating flocks refuse to feed:
Ask not why greens and flow'rs so late appear
To clothe the glebe, and deck the springing year;
Why sounds the lawn with loud laments and cries,
And swoln with tears to floods the riv'lets rise:
The fair Florelio now has left the plain,

Hail antient Greece! the sacred earth,
That gave to bards and heroes birth,
Where arts and virtue were combin'd
To perfect and adorn the mind.
'Twas there great Homer pour'd along
The majesty of epic song;
To him all nature stood consest,
And heav'nly genius warm'd his breast;
He gave to future writers law
And from his copious source they draw.
There history receiv'd its form
Taught by Herodotus to charm;
Thucydides with manly rage,
And nervous sense inform'd its page.
The drama there learn'd to impart

Lingring delayes, slacke payments doe foreshowe,
Better no promise, then no performance:
Sleight are the sorrowes, slakte with comforts slowe,
Eyther sende, or ende, yeelde some assurance.
Shyfting delaye, mislyking oft doth breede,
They soone denye, whose Suters slowly speede.

The shallow streames, doe murmour more then deepe,
And Cowards bragge, that dares no weapons prooue:
Those Dogs byte least, that greatest barkings keepe,
Some do but fayne, whose shewes seeme farre in loue.
Sounde is the Tree, whence friendships fruite doth spring,
Doe or be still , let none but Syrens sing.

The rose is sweet no longer red,
And virtue charms though beauty's fled.