Elyfium, feats of art, and laurels won,

"The Graces three, and Japhet's fabled fon :
"Whilst Angelo fhall wave the mystic rod,
"And see a new creation wait his, nod,

"Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorfelefs power, "And, to my arms, my abfent friends restore, "Place me amidst the group, each well-known face, "The fons of fcience, lords of human race; "And as oblivion finks at his command, "Nature shall rise more finish'd from his hand, "Thus fome Magician fraught with potent skill, "Transforms, and moulds each varied mass at will; "Calls animated forms of wonderous birth, "Cadmean offspring, from the teeming earth, "Uncears the ponderous tombs, the realms of night, "And calls their cold inhabitants to light;

"Or, as he traverses a dreary scene,

"Bids every fweet of nature there convene,

Huge mountains skirted round with wavy woods, "The fhrub-deckt lawns, and filver fprinkled floods, "Whilft flowrets fpring around the smiling land, "And follow on the traces of his wand.

* Prometheus.

"Such

"And what thou canst of bliss impart be mine; "Amid thy humble fhades, in tranquil ease, "Grant me to pass the remnant of my days, "Unfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain, "My raptur'd mufe fhall pour her noblest strain, "Within her native bowers the notes prolong, "And, grateful, meditate her lateft fong. "Thus, as adown the flope of life I bend, "And move, refign'd, to meet my latter end, "Each worldly wifh, each worldly care repreft, "A felf-approving heart alone poffeft,

"Content, to bounteous heaven I'll leave the reft,"

Thus, fpoke the bard: but not one friendly power, With nod affentive crown'd the parting hour; No eastern meteor glar'd beneath the sky, No dextral omen; Nature heav'd a figh Prophetic of the dire impending blow, The prefage of her lofs, and Britain's woe. Already portion'd, unrelenting Fate Had made a pause upon the number'd date; Behind, flood death, too horrible for fight, In darkness clad, expectant, prun'd for flight; Pleas'd at the word, the shapelefs monfter fped, On eager meffage to the humble shed,

Where

Where wrapt by foft poetic vifions round,'
Sweet flumbering, Fancy's darling fon he found.
At his approach the filken pinion'd train

Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain;
Which late they fann'd: now other scenes than dales
Of woody pride, fucceed, or flow'ry vales:
As when a fudden tempeft veils the sky,
Before ferene, and streaming lightnings fly;
The profpect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll,
Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole;
Terrific horrors all the void inveft,
Whilft the Archspectre issues forth confeft.
The bard beholds him beckon to the tomb
Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb;
In vain attempts to fly, the impaffive air
Retards his steps, and yields him to despair;
He feels a gripe that thrills through every vein,
And panting ftruggles in the fatal chain.
Here paus'd the fell deftroyer to furvey
The pride, the boast of man, his deftin'd prey,
Prepar'd to ftrike he pois'd aloft the dart,
And plung'd the fteel in Virtue's bleeding heart;
Abhorrent, back the fprings of life rebound,
And leave on Nature's face a grisly wound.

A wound

That ages yet to follow, cannot close.

Oh, Goldsmith! how fhall forrow now effay,
To murmur out her flow incondite lay?

In what fad accents mourn the luckless hour,
That yielded thee to unrelenting power;
Thee, the proud boaft, of all the tuneful train
That fweep the lyre, or fwell the polish'd ftrain ;
Much honour'd Bard! if my untutor❜d verfe
Could pay a tribute, worthy of thy hearse,
With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise,
And boldly ftrew the never fading bays.
But, ah! with thee my guardian Genius fled,
And pillow'd in thy tomb his filent head:
Pain'd Memory alone behind remains,
And penfive ftalks the folitary plains,
Rich in her forrows, honours without art,
She pays in tears, redundant from the heart.
And fay, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd duft
To heap the graven pile, or laurel'd buft;
Since by thy hands already rais'd on high,
We fee a fabrick tow'ring to the sky:

Where hand and hand with time, the facred lore
Shall travel on, till nature is no more?

POEMS

POE MS,

BY

DR. GOLDSMITH.

VOL. I,

A