The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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THE GRAVE OF EURIPIDES.
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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
269
THE GRAVE OF EURIPIDES.
AN ELEGY.
O thou, whose deeply-pictur'd scenes of woe
From Grecian eyes could force the pitying show'r!
Permit a stranger's sigh unfeign'd to flow—
Indulge his hand to strew the sweetest flow'r.
From Grecian eyes could force the pitying show'r!
Permit a stranger's sigh unfeign'd to flow—
Indulge his hand to strew the sweetest flow'r.
I know I shall not by thy shade be scorn'd,
Who boast my birth from Albion's free domain;
Where Nature's soul, like thine, in Shakespeare mourn'd,
Where Milton's genius pour'd th' immortal strain.
Who boast my birth from Albion's free domain;
Where Nature's soul, like thine, in Shakespeare mourn'd,
Where Milton's genius pour'd th' immortal strain.
Yet lo, a race of this degenerate age,
Sons of those sages, heroes, bards, whose name
Gave splendor to the fair historic page,
Forgets the glory of the Grecian name.
Sons of those sages, heroes, bards, whose name
Gave splendor to the fair historic page,
Forgets the glory of the Grecian name.
I mark you, son of Athens, with a sigh!
Of Pow'r, of Ignorance, the abject slave —
Fear on his cheek, and mis'ry in his eye,
He wanders near thee, heedless of thy grave!
Of Pow'r, of Ignorance, the abject slave —
Fear on his cheek, and mis'ry in his eye,
He wanders near thee, heedless of thy grave!
Where is thy fame? In Greece no more divine,
It pours on Albion's isle the radiant day;
There, with a noon-tide lustre may it shine,
And gild my country with unclouded ray!
It pours on Albion's isle the radiant day;
There, with a noon-tide lustre may it shine,
And gild my country with unclouded ray!
270
Each night retiring, as I whisper peace,
With each adieu, the tear will steal away;
To think that thou the song of gods shouldst cease,
And, dying, mingle with the meanest clay.
With each adieu, the tear will steal away;
To think that thou the song of gods shouldst cease,
And, dying, mingle with the meanest clay.
Though Greece forgets thee, yet on Fancy's wing
From distant Albion will I oft return;
Crown thy cold sod with all the blooms of spring,
And envy the rich earth that holds thy urn.
From distant Albion will I oft return;
Crown thy cold sod with all the blooms of spring,
And envy the rich earth that holds thy urn.
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||