Sayfadaki görseller

Thus fades the Flow'r, nip'd by the frozen Gale,

Tho'once so sweet, fo lovely to the Eye: Thus the tall Oaks, when boilt'rous Storms affail,

Torn from the Earth, a mighty Ruin lye.

Ye sacred Sisters of the plaintive Verse,

Now let the Stream of fond Affection flow,
O pay your Tribute o'er the slow-drawn Hearse,

With all the manly Dignity of Woe.

Oft when the Curfew toils its parting Knell,
With solemn Pause yon CHURCH-YARD's Gloom

While Sorrow's fighs, and Tears of Pity tell,

How just the Moral of the Poet's Lay I.

O'er his green Grave, in Contemplation's Guise,

Oft let the Pilgrim drop a filent Tear, Oft let the Shepherd's tender Accents rise,

Big with the Sweets of each revolving Year, Till proftrate Time adore his deathless Name, Fix'd on the solid Base of Adamantine Fame,

| Elegy in a Country CHURCH-YARD.


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IMPLICITY! thou lovely Fair,

To thee the Muse devotes her Song,
To thee directs her ardent Pray'r,

For thee the leaves the civic Throng,
Who vainly chase the baseless Joys,
Which every empty Breeze destroys.

To gain the Courtier's faithless Smile,

Amid the Glare of Courts to shine,
Let giddy Mortals idly toil,

I'll seek thy calm fequefter'd Shrine :
Where Health, Content, and Peace unite,
To give the Soul supreme Delight,
How sweet, fair Nymph, with Thee to dwell!

Where vernal Beauties cloath the Field,
How sweet to view thy rugged Cell,

Beneath the moss-grown Rock conceal'd;
Where Contemplation's powerful Beam,
To Fancy gives the vagrant Dream.

How How sweet with Innocence to rove!

Amid thy soft bewitching Throng! Who tread the pleasing Paths of Love,

And often raise the rural Song, Which sooths the fondly-listening Ear, And melts the Souls of those who hear.

Haste then, dear Nymph, with Brow serene,

Conduct me to thy Sylvan Seat,
Halte, lead me to the peaceful Scene,

Where thou hast fix'd thy blest Retreat, ,
And there with fond Regard I'll pay
The Tribute of a rustic Lay..

Beneath yon Shade, beyond yon Thorn,

Where Nature's Songfters raise the Strain,
With Thee I'll pass the chearful Morn,

Remote from Sorrow, Grief, and Pain,
Save when the fadly-plaintive Note
Bursts from sweet Philomela's Throat.

Oft on yon blooming Bed of Flow'rs,

Whose balmy Fragrance scents the Gale, With thee I'll pass the Noon-tide Hours,

Intent to hear the Shepherd's Tale, Which flows from thy exhaustless Store, Diffusing Joys unknown before.

Oft when the Shades of Evening fall,

And Cynthia thines with doubtful Light, On Thee delightful Nymph I'll call,

To show the Rock's stupendous Height, Where all thy Beauties strike the Eye, With Grandeur, Pomp, and Majesty.


And to these Valleys oft I'll rove,

Where Midnight Fairies join the Ring, Led on by Freedom, Mirth, and Love,

Inspir’d by Fancy when they fing; And there from Pride, from Envy free, I'll dedicate myself to thee.




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Soft Deluders of the Mind, Your's are Fancy's glowing Measures,

Your's are Virtue's Joys refin'd.


Your's are Pity's kindred Sorrows,

Your's are Mercy's chearing Smiles, Your's the Form which Transport borrows

Where no selfish Bliss beguiles.

Haste ye pleasing Powers, and banish

From my Breast each partial Care, Let th' unsocial Purpose vanish,

In the boundless Fields of Air.

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