Thy much-lov'd image, whose all-soothing smile
Could pain disarm, and death's last pang beguile !-
Hopeless, but not dismay'd, with fearless eye
He reads the doom that tells him " he must die"-
Lays his brave hand upon his bleeding breast,
And feels his glory while he finds his rest!
Resigns the transient breath which nature gave,
And sure of prouder life o'erlooks the grave.-
Sweet is the meed that waits his laurel'd bier,.
'Tis Valour's hope, 'tis Honour's praise sincere,
'Tis Friendship's sigh, and gentle Beauty's tear!

1796.

AN ELEGY

To the Memory of a Friend: written a Year after his Death.

BY RICHARD FENTON, ESQ.

Cui pudor et justitiæ soror

Incorrupta fides, nudaque veritas,

Quando ullum invenient param.—HOR.

Ar midnight hour, why gleams with sullen sweep
Thy visionary form across my mind,

To scare me from the soft embrace of sleep,
And chill me, waking, with thy frown unkind?

Com'st thou severe my tardiness to chide,

With stern reproach for many a trifling song? Methinks I hear thee say, "If thou hadst dy'd, "I had not left thee thus unwept so long!"

Forgive, dear shade, if twelve long moons are fled
Since to the earth thy dear remains we gave,
(Tho' witness Heaven how much my heart has bled!)
Nor yet my pious Muse has dress'd thy grave.

While lighter sorrow prompts th' impassion'd strain,
Severer, all the powers of fancy stints;

The flower, that drown'd would die beneath the rain,
Drinks the thin dew, and spreads its brighter tints.

And how could I insult thee with a lyre,

Whose strings had not forgotten yet the lays Which love and youth united to inspire,

When health and pleasure frolick'd through our days:

By many an agonizing groan betray'd,

By many a suffocated sigh confest

(Thy rites not unremember'd, tho' unpaid,) Thy memory long was buried in my breast.

But now my breast gives up its dead to rise,
And pierce new-born through grief's surrounding
gloom,

As thy own dust when summon'd to the skies,
Awak'd, shall spring exulting from the tomb.

Pain's recent sting, beyond endurance keen,
Sheath'd in the balm of years, forgets to rage,
And grief's stern form, through time's soft amber seen,
To melancholy mellow'd, may engage.

Then, Recollection, all the scene recall,

And bid each kind endearment to return Which link'd our hearts, for I can bear them all, In grief ecstatic whilst I clasp thy urn.

Recall the music of the early horn,

The tale well-form'd our wanderings to deceive,

When rosy exercise awak'd the morn,

Or social converse led us out at eve.

The spot revisit where our youth was spent,
Where joys were for maturer years prepar'd;
Where I had wish'd to live and die content,

To share those pleasures had thy life been spar'd.

There in each hill, each valley, and each tree,
That rises frequent on my sad review,
Never to fade, I mark each fair degree

By which our friendship to perfection grew.

Their shadowy arms where yon twin-beeches throw, Oft hast thou caught thy favourite HOMER's rage, As oft exchang'd it for the temperate glow,

The milder rapture of the MANTUAN sage.

There, fir'd by thee, I first essay'd to sing,

My earliest strain is dated from that shade,
And there, temptation to retouch the string,
The simple verse thy candid smiles o'erpaid.

Oft have we plann'd the pine's umbrageous rows,
Where opens to the wind yon naked plain;
And many an oak to fancy's eye arose,

The future shelter of the Dryad train.

In ooze obscure, where yonder Naïd sleeps,
Or in the covert of the hazel shade,
Where, scarce awake, ingloriously she creeps,
We plann'd the torrent fall of the cascade.

Twin'd like our hearts, where yonder boughs unite,
With care we trimm'd the arch of the alcove,

A shade devoted to the pure delight

Of noblest friendship, and the chastest love

It falls for ah! what hand will now supply
The culture to mature' this fair retreat?
No more, alas! beneath the mutual eye,
The meditated scenes shall rise compleat.

Hills, vales, and groves! ye but retain a name;
Scenes once belov'd, ye boast no charms for me!
So joyless now, say, are they still the same,

Or did they borrow all their charms from thee?

'Twas not that other vales were not so fair;

"Twas not that other streams less clear were found; "Twas not that richer sweets perfum'd the air; Thy presence only, made it fairy ground.

Friendship like thine to ZEMBLA's waste of snow
Could all the beauties of the south impart-
No sickly shoot! in any clime would grow
The vigorous native of thy Roman heart.

Yet was it here, of such excelling price,
A hoard thy philosophic bosom glean'd,
And was it here, untainted with its vice,

Thy young affections from the world were wean'd f

Here still some inspiration may remain,
Thy spirit here may loiter for my sake;

And every object yet enough retain,

To keep thy fair example still awake.

Each wonted scene then constant I'll frequent,
And leave each giddy vain pursuit behind;
Delightful solitude; if thou be lent

In heavenly visions whispering to my mind.

The stinted portion of the world's renown,
Teach me from conscious virtue to supply;
Teach me alike on Fortune's smile or frown
To turn, with resignation in my eye.

By trust in heaven each anxious wish compos'd,
Teach me thy life, from thankless murmurs free;
And on the bosom of my God repos'd,

Teach me to smile away my life like thee.

What tho' thy genius led thee to admire

The silent joys which charm the good and wise,
And bade thee in the prime of youth retire,
And pomp and vain applauses to despise ;

Yet not austere, nor of the cynic band,

Thine was the feast of soul, from crowds apart; Far as thy fortunes stretch'd thy bounteous hand, Wide as the' extended world thy ample heart.

The flower, Spring's daughter, fed with Heaven's best dews,

And wooed by Zephyrs which unfold her dyes; Thus far from man's worn path her perfume strews, Thus breathes her secret incense to the skies.

What tho', my friend, unhonour'd be thy tomb,
No pious verse, nor living marble there;
Well may'st thou, favour'd with no vulgar doom,
The pride of epitaph and sculpture spare.

Yes, while maturing from their second birth,
Thine atoms rest beneath th' unnoticed clod,
The Muse shall point to man the hallow'd earth,
The Virtues lift it to the care of God.