Her fav'rite walls neglected lay,
Rude, mean, and mould'ring to decay.
He comes to pay the honours due,
To rear her facred pile anew,
And bid the work aloft ascend,
Whose fame fhall never, never end.
Now, fee him in the task engage,
The glory of the prefent age,
While, bending from the realm of day,
The Sire fall pleas'd the Son furvey.
TUNE-Let ambition fire thy mind.
Now, now, the glorious work's begun,
That ftill fhall last while ages run,
Whose fame shall spread thro' ev'ry clime,
And know no end but that of time.
Here Genius, from its ample store,
Improving what was known before,
Shall add to Learning boundaries new,
And bring each latent truth to view.
Here useful science, polish'd art,
Shall each distinguish'd hold a part,
And knowledge join, with taste combin'd,
At once t'improve, adorn the mind.
TUNE-Britannia Rules the Waves.
THE Stone we've seen first plac'd by Napier's hand, Whose future pile aloft fhall rife,
Whofe fame fhall spread through every distant land, And, rais'd by time, fhall reach the kies.
Here, here, to glory train'd, fhall rife a race,
Their country's ornament and fhield,
Whose wisdom fhall Britannia's council grace,
Whofe arms fhall guard her in the field.
This day, long-wifh'd, to celebrate we'll raise,
Triumphant raise a joyful strain,
This day, at last arriv'd, to future praise
For ever facred shall remain.
Written in the Year 1790, when a Report prevailed that the Grave of Milton had been difcovered in Cripplegate Church-yard, on which Occafion the fuppofed Remains of this famous Poet were dug up, and fuffered for fome days to remain expofed to public View.
"TWAS night, and buried in profound repose,
The numerous tribes of busy mortals lay,
My wakeful eyes alone forgot to close,
And thought fucceeded to the cares of day:
Till wearied nature funk at length to rest,
But Fancy hovering still around my head; Fancy, the fleepless tenant of the breast,
Its airy vifions o'er my flumbers spread:
When to my view a grizly form appears,
Of mein majestic, but dejected hue,
Reverend, funk deeply in the vale of years,
The Father of the English Song I knew.
Hail, cried I, Author of immortal lays—
My Son, faid he, these titles now forbear,
No time remains to wafte in ufelefs praife,
A difførens subje& now demands our care!
Thou know'ft, and oft haft mourn'd how hard my lot,
Of evil days and evil tongues the prey,*
Difhonour'd, unrewarded, and forgot,
I funk the unheeded victim of decay.
Obfcurely in a vault my corpfe was laid,
Fenc'd by no shelter from the common doom,
No voice of praife was heard to footh my shade,
No pomp of funeral adorn'd my tomb:
Yet faw I fons their fathers faults difclaim,
The tribute long withheld of honour pay,
My ftrains victorious fill'd the voice of fame,
Nor griev'd I though my corpse unheeded lay.
But, ah, how fhall I tell the dire difgrace!
With hands profane my tomb they now difclofe,
My bones torn rudely from their grave deface,
And rob my afhes of their due repofe !
Was it for this I toil'd in freedom's caufe,
With ceaseless care the arduous labour ply'd,
Dethroning tyrants, and afferting laws,
Till light, alas, its friendly aid deny'd?
Was it for this, though quench'd my visual ray,
I woo'd the Mufe to build the lofty rhyme,
To more than mortal themes attun'd my lay,
And foar'd beyond the bounds of space and time?
* Milton in one of his works complains, that he had fallen upon evil days and evil tangues."
Is this the fame I hop'd from future days,
Are these the mighty honours they bestow-
With facrilegious hands my corpfe to raise,
My bones expofe a mercenary fhow?
To brand the wretches, who the dead invade,
With fhame and fell remorfe be thine the care; The cock was heard to crow-no more he said, And the thin vifion vanquish'd into air.
HAIL, meek-ey'd Patience, heavenly maid,
But fent to earth to mortals aid,
To teach them to endure
many ills which wait below In close fucceffion ftill, and know
From death alone a cure!
Hail, Patience, and with thee Content,
That ever pleas'd with bleffings fent,
The woes of fate beguiles;
And Meeknefs too, with placid mien,
With brow unalter'd and ferene,
That e'en in forrow fmiles:
And Fortitude attend thy train,
Superior to the ills of pain,
That ftill defies the ftroke;
And Refignation too be there,
In filence skill'd each ill to bear,
And bow beneath the yoke!
|