Retir'd beneath the beechen fhade,

From each infpiring bough

The Muses wove th' unfading wreaths
That circled Virgil's brow.

Reflect, before the fatal axe

My threaten'd doom has wrought;

Nor facrifice to fenfual taste

The nobler growth of thought.

'Not all the glowing fruits that blush
• On India's funny coaft,

⚫ Can récompense thee for the worth
• Of one idea loft.

My shade a produce may supply
• Unknown to folar fire;
< And what excludes Apollo's rays,

• Shall harmonize his lyre.'

PIOUS MEMORY.

OCCASIONED BY SEEING THE GRAVES DRESSED WITH FLOWERS, AT BRECKNOCK IN WALES.

BY DR. DODD.

HITHER away, fair maid?' I cry'd,

'WH

*

As on old Hundy's bank I lay;

When, paffing by me, I efpy'd

A modest maid in neat array.
Upon her red, but well-turn'd arm,
A little wicker-basket hung;
With flow'rs of various hues replete,

And branches ever-green and young:

* A river which runs by Brecknock.

Z z

The

The fragrant bay, the mournful yew,

The cypress, and the box, were there; The daify py'd, the violet blue,

The red pink, and the primrose fair. • And why that basket on your arm,

• With all those fragrant fweets fupply'd?
With blushing look, and pensive air,
And voice of meekness, soft she figh'd:
To yonder church-yard do I haste

To dress the grave where Henry fleeps;

No maid a truer lover blefs'd,

• No maid more faithful lover weeps.

• Stern Death forbade us to unite,

And cut him down with ruthless blow;

• And now I speed to deck his grave,

'As 'tis our weekly wont to do.'

The melancholy cuftom pleas'd:

She left me wrapp'd in pensive thought;

Ideas fad, but foothing, rose,

When my flow steps the church-yard sought.

There, kneeling o'er her Henry's grave,

Adorn'd with all her basket's store,

The rural maiden, fighing, hung,

Her eyes with tender tears ran o'er.

She rais'd thofe eyes, fo full of tears,

Which now and then ftole down her cheek;
And much to Heav'n fhe would have spoke,
But forrow would not let her speak.

Yet, though her thoughts could find no vent,
There is, who reads each honest mind:

And the true heart to Him devote,

Shall ample fatisfaction find.

Then, gentle maiden! do not fear,
Again thy Henry thou shalt meet:

Till then thy tender task pursue,

And strew thy greens and flowers fo fweet.

And

And

you, whom all around I fee,

The fame dear mournful task employ:
Ye parents, children, hufbands, wives,
The melancholy bliss enjoy!

Oh! 'tis delicious, to maintain

Of friends deceas'd a due refpect!

.. Then bring me flow'rets, bring me greens,

Straight fhall my parents grave be deck'd;
And many a friend's (whom faithful love
Still keeps alive within my breaft)
Luxurioufly fad, I'll fee

With choiceft garlands weekly drefs'd.
Come, then, the wicker-basket bring;
Come, Memory, and with me go!
Each lovely flower that breathes the spring,
Affection's gentle hand shall strew:

A mellow tear of foothing woe

Shall o'er the graves fpontaneous fall; While Heav'n the heart's ftill wish shall hear, And to each other grant us all.

A MONODY,

BY GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON,

ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.

A

• Ipfe cavâ folans ægrum teftudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.'

T length escap'd from every human eye,

From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,

Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;

Beneath the gloom of this embowering fhade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my ftores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low,

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!

But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now, with fond delight,

And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice,
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The sweeteft fongfters of the fpring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,

And every fhepherd's flute
Was caft in filent scorn away,

While all attended to her fweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong;

And thou, melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive story tell;

For death has stopp'd that tuneful tongue,

Whofe mufick could alone your warbling notes excel.

In

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the fummer fun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's fide,

Nor where it's waters glide

Along the valley, can fhe now be found:
In all the wide-ftretch'd prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her efpy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relicks lie.

O fhades of Hagley, where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.

You she preferr'd to all the gay reforts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modest beauties shunn'd the publick eye :
To your fequefter'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales,

From an admiring world the chose to fly.

With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,

The filent paths of wisdom trod,

And banish'd every paffion from her breast;
But thofe, the gentleft and the best,

Whofe holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who, like the little playful fawns,

Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns

By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps fhall-guide?

Ah!