LYRIC POEMS. 306 Yet are we fond of thine imperious reign, Proud of thy slavery, wanton in our pain, And chide the courteous hand when death dissolves the chain. Virtue, forgive the thought! the raving muse Wild and despairing knows not what she does, Grows mad in grief, and in her savage hours Affronts the name she loves and she adores. She is tby vot'ress too ; and at thy shrine, O sacred Friendship, offer'd songs divine, While Gunston liv'd, and both our souls were thine. Here to these shades at solemn hours we came, To pay devotion with a mutual flame, Partners in bliss. Sweet lux'ry of the mind I And sweet the aids of sense! Each ruder wind Slept in its caverns, while an evening-breeze Fann'd the leaves gently, sporting thro' the trees; The linnet and the lark their vespers. snug, And clouds of crimson o'er th' horizon hung; The slow - declining sun, with sloping wheels, Sunk down the golden day behind the western hills. Mourn, ye young gardens, ye unfinish'd gates, Ye green inclosures, and ye growing sweets Lament, for ye our midnight hours have known, And watclt'd us walking by the silent mòon, In conference divine, while heav'nly fire Kindling our breasts, did all our thoughts inspire With joys almost immortal ; then our zeal Blaz'd and burnthigh to reach th' ethereal hill ; And love refined, like that above the poles, Threw both our arms round one another's souls, In rapture and embraces. Oh forbear, Forbear, my song! this is too much to hear, Too dreadful to repeat; such joys as these Fled fromthe earth for ever! Oh fora general grief! let all things share Our woes, that knew our loves :The neighbouring air Let it be laden with immortal sighs, And tell the gales, that ev'ry breath that flies Over these fields should murmur and complain, And kiss the fading grass, and propagate the pain. Weep all ye buildings, and the groves around For ever weep : this is an endlesswound, Vast end incurable. Ye buildings knew His silver tongue, ye groves haveheard it too. At that dear sound no more shall ye. rejoice, And I no more must hear the charming voice: Woe to my drooping soul ! that heav'nly breath That could speak life, lies now congeal'd in death ; While on his folded fins all cold and pale Eternal chains and heavy silence dwell. Yet my fond hope wouldhear him speak again, Oncemore, at least, one gentleword, and then Gunston aloud I call : In vain I cry Gunston aloud ; for he must ne'er reply. In vain L mourn, and drop these funeral tears, Death and the grave have, neither eyes nor ears: Wand'ring I tune my sorrows to the groves, And vent my swelling griefs, and tell the winds our loves ; While the dear youth sleeps fast, and bears them not: He bath forgot me : In the lonesome vault, Vol.
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