Thus spoke the Bard; but not one friendly power No eastern meteor glar'd beneath the sky, Whilst the arch-spectre issues forth confest. In vain attempts to fly, the impassive air The pride, the boast of man, his destin'd prey; A wound enroll'd among Britannia's woes, That ages yet to follow, cannot close. Oh, Goldsmith! how shall sorrow now essay To murmur out her slow incondite lay? In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour, But, ah! with thee my guardian Genius fled, Rich in her sorrows, honours without art, Where hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore ERRATUM. In the 1st page of the Life, line 3, for 1739, read 1731. |