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ENCOMIUMS ON THOMSON.
DEATH OF THOMSON,
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!
To deck its Poet's silvan grave!
His airy harp shall now be laid,
May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths 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 his gentle spirit rest!
1 The Æolian Harp; 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.
Ah! what will every dirge avail? Or tears, which Love aud Pity shed
That mourn beneath the gliding sai!! 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-crown'd Sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green bill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade,
Dun Night bas veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's Child, again adieu ! The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom, Their binds 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, ()! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!
2 Richmoud Church,
SHADE OF THOMSON,
BY ROBERT BURNS.
While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood
Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Æolian strains between:
While Summer with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh'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:
Wbile maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Ronsing 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; Wbile Scotia, with exulting tear,
Proclaims that THOMSON was her son!