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The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq

In two volumes. With Decorations. The fourth edition

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To Mr. R. D. on the Death of Mr. Shenstone.
  
  
  
  


331

To Mr. R. D. on the Death of Mr. Shenstone.

“Thee, shepherd, thee, the woods and desart caves,
“With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
“And all their echoes mourn.”
Milt.

'Tis past! my friend; the transient scene is clos'd!
The fairy pile, th'enchanted vision rais'd
By Damon's magic skill, is lost in air!
What tho' the lawns and pendant woods remain,
Each tinkling stream, each rushing cataract,
With lapse incessant echoes thro' the dale?
Yet what avails the lifeless landskip now?
The charm's dissolv'd; the Genius of the wood,
Alas! is flown—for Damon is no more.
As when from fair Lyceum, crown'd with pines,
Or Mænalus, with leaves autumnal strew'd,
The tuneful Pan retires; the vocal hills
Resound no more, and all Arcadia mourns.
Yet here we fondly dreamt of lasting joys:
Here we had hop'd, from noisy throngs retir'd,
To drink large draughts of friendship's cordial stream;
In sweet oblivion wrapt, by Damon's verse,
And social converse, many a summer's day.

332

Romantic wish! In vain frail mortals trace
Th'imperfect sketch of human bliss—whilst yet
Th'enraptur'd sire his well-plann'd structure views,
Majestic rising 'midst his infant groves:
Sees the dark laurel spread its glossy shade,
Its languid bloom the purple lilack blend,
Or pale laburnum drop it's pensile chain:
Death spreads the fatal shaft, and bids his heir
Transplant the cypress round his father's tomb.
Oh! teach me then, like you, my friend, to raise
To moral truths my groveling song; for, ah!
Too long, by lawless fancy led astray,
Of nymphs and groves I've dreamt, and dancing fawns
Or Naïad leaning o'er her tinkling urn.
Oh! could I learn to sanctify my strains
With hymns, like those by tuneful Meyrick sung—
Or rather catch the melancholy sounds
From Warton's reed, or Mason's lyre—to paint
The sudden gloom that damps my soul—But see!
Melpomene herself has snatch'd the pipe,
With which sad Lyttelton his Lucia mourn'd;
And plaintive cries, my Shenstone is no more!
R. G.