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ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.
BY MR. COLLINS.
The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed to lie on the
Thames near Richmond.
IN yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its Poet's sylvan grave !
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp* shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youth shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear
To hear the woodland Pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid hịs gentle spirit rest !
* The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.
And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
And mid the varied landscape weep.
But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah ! what will ever dirge avail ? Or tears, which love and pity shed
That mourn beneath the gliding sail !
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ; With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend.
And see, the fairy, vallies fade,
Dun night has veiled the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's Child, again adieu'
The genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom, Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay,
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes ; O ! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies !
* Richmond Church.
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
ON CROWNING HIS BUST WITH BAYS, AT
EDNAM, IN ROXBURGHSHIRE.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between :
While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburg's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade :
While Autumn, benefactor kind !
By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed :
While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
Or sweeping wild a waste of snows :
So long, sweet Poet of the Year,
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; While Scotia, with exulting tear,
Proclaims that THOMSON was her son !
SIGNS of approaching Spring
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