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Great Cian's son: of Madoc old
To Cattraeth's vale in glittering row,
HAVE ye seen the tusky boar*,
CONAN'S name, my lay, rehearse,
Have ye seen, &.] This and the following short fragment ought to have appeared among the Posthumous Pieces of Gray; but it was thought preferable.
Sacred tribute of the bard,
ON MRS. CLARKE.
Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
Her infant image here below,
Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
to insert them in this place with the preceding fragment from the Gododin.
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
Till time shall every grief remove,
ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS.
Written at the request of Mr. Frederick Montagu, who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Belleisle, at the siege of which Sir W. Williams was killed, 1761.
HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, Young Williams fought for England's fair
His Mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd his frame,
Nor envy dared to view him with a frown.
At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,
There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love he flew, And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field.
With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast, Victor he stood on Belleisle's rocky steeps Ah, gallant youth! this marble tells the rest, Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps.
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around,
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield.
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike the' inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.