CLOS'D is that curious ear, by Death's cold hand,
That mark'd each error of my careless strain
With kind severity; to whom my Muse
Still lov'd to whisper, what she meant to sing
In louder accent; to whose taste supreme
She first and last appeal'd, nor wish'd for praise,
Save when his smile was herald to her fame.
Yes, thou art gone; yet Friendship's fault'ring tongue
Invokes thee still; and still, by Fancy sooth'd,
Fain would she hope her GRAY attends the call.
Why then, alas! in this my fav'rite haunt
Place I the urn, the bust, the sculptur'd lyre,*
Or fix this votive tablet, fair inscrib'd
With numbers worthy thee, for they are thine?
Why, if thou hear'st me still, these symbols sad
Of fond memorial? Ah! my pensive soul !
He hears me not, nor ever more shall hear
The theme his candour, not his taste approv❜d.
Oft, smiling as in scorn,' oft would he cry, "Why waste thy numbers on a trivial art, "That ill can mimic even the humblest charms
"Of all-majestic Nature?" at the word
His eye would glisten, and his accents glow
With all the Poet's frenzy," Sov'reign Queen!
"Behold, and tremble, while thou view'st her state 25 "Thron'd on the heights of Skiddaw: call thy art
"To build her such a throne; that art will feel
"How vain her best pretensions. Trace her march
"Amid the purple craggs of Borrowdale ;
"And try like those to pile thy range of rock
"In rude tumultuous chaos. See! she mounts
"Her Naiad car, and, down Lodore's dread cliff
"Falls many a fathom, like the headlong Bard
"My fabling fancy plung'd in Conway's flood;
"Yet not like him to sink in endless night:
"For, on its boiling bosom, still she guides
"Her buoyant shell, and leads the wave along;
“Or spreads it broad, a river, or a lake,
"As suits her pleasure; will thy boldest song
"E'er brace the sinews of enervate art
"To such dread daring? Will it ev❜n direct
"Her hand to emulate those softer charms
"That deck the banks of Dove, or call to birth
"The bare romantic craggs, and copses green,
"That sidelong grace her circuit, whence the rills, 45
Bright in their crystal purity, descend
"To meet their sparkling Queen? around each fount "The hawthorns crowd, and knit their blossom'd sprays "To keep their sources sacred. Here, even here, "Thy art, each active sinew stretch'd in vain, "Would perish in its pride. Far rather thou "Confess her scanty power, correct, controul, "Tell her how far, nor farther, she may go; "And rein with Reason's curb fantastic Taste."
Yes, I will hear thee, dear lamented Shade,
And hold each dictate sacred. What remains
Unsung shall so each leading rule select
As if it still guided by thy judment sage;
While, as still modell'd to thy curious ear,
Flow my melodious numbers; so shall praise,
If ought of praise the verse I weave may claim,
From just posterity reward my song.
Erewhile to trace the path, to form the fence,
To mark the destin'd limits of the lawn,
The Muse, with measur'd step, preceptive, pac'd.
Now from the surface with impatient flight
She mounts, Sylvanus! o'er thy world of shade
To spread her pinions. Open all thy glades,
Greet her from all thy echoes. Orpheus-like,
Arm'd with the spells of harmony she comes,
To lead thy forests forth to lovelier haunts,
Where Fancy waits to fix them; from the dell
Where now they lurk she calls them to possess
Conspicuous stations; to their varied forms
Allots congenial place; selects, divides,
And blends anew in one Elysian scene.
Yet, while I thus exult, my weak tongue feels
Its ineffectual powers, and seeks in vain
That force of ancient phrase which, speaking, paints,
And is the thing it sings. Ah Virgil! why,
By thee neglected, was this loveliest theme
Left to the grating voice of modern reed?
Why not array it in the splendid robe
Of thy rich diction, and consign the charge
To Fame thy handmaid, whose immortal plume
Had born its praise beyond the bounds of Time?
Countless is Vegetation's verdant brood
As are the stars that stud yon cope of heaven;
To marshal all her tribes in order'd file,
Generic, or specific, might demand
His science, wond'rous Swede! whose ample mind,
Like ancient Tadmor's philosophic king,
Stretch'd from the hyssop creeping on the wall
To Lebanon's proudest cedars. Skill like this,
Which spans a third of Nature's copious realm,
Our art requires not, sedulous alone
To note those general properties of form,
Dimension, growth, duration, strength, and hue,
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