On fome fond breaft the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, z Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Doft in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred Spirit fhall inquire thy fate, z Ch'i veggio nel penfier, dolce mio fuoco, Petrarch. Son. 169. Haply . Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may say, • Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn • That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, "His liftlefs length at noontide would he ftretch, • And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, • Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love. • One • One morn I mifs'd him on the custom'd hill, 'Another came; nor yet befide the rill, 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; • The next with dirges due in fad array • Slow thro' the church-way path we faw him born. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, • Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn.' |