ON DR. GOLDSMITH's DEATH. 11
Yes, these survive to time's remotest day;
While drops the buft, and boaftful tombs decay,
Reader, if number'd in the Mufe's train,
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his ftrain;
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan,
Depart in peace, and imitate the man.
THE village-bell tolls out the note of death,
And through the echoing air, the length'ning found,
With dreadful paufe, reverberating deep;
Spreads the fad tidings, o'er fair Auburn's vale.
There, to enjoy the fcenes her bard had prais'd
In all the sweet fimplicity of fong,
GENIUS, in pilgrim garb, fequefter'd fat,
And herded jocund with the harmless swains:
But when she heard the fate-forboding knell,
With startled step, precipitate and fwift,
And look pathetic, full of dire presage,
The church-way walk, befide the neighb'ring green,
Sorrowing the fought; and there, in black array,
Borne on the shoulders of the fwains he lov'd,
She faw the boast of Auburn mov'd along.
Touch'd at the view, her penfive breaft fhe ftruck,
And to the cyprefs, which incumbent hangs
With leaning flope, and branch irregular,
O'er the mofs'd pillars of the facred fane,
The briar-bound graves fhadowing with funeral gloom,
Forlorn fhe hied; and there the crowding woe
(Swell'd by the parent) prefs'd on bleeding thought,
Big ran the drops from her maternal eye,
Faft broke the bofom-forrow from her heart,
And pale Distress, fat fickly on her cheek,
As thus her plaintive Elegy began.
And muft my children all expire?
Shall none be left to ftrike the lyre?
Courts death alone a learned prize?
Falls his fhafts only on the wife?
Can no fit marks on earth be found,
From ufelefs thoufands fwarming round?
What hoft of victims at command!
Yet fhall th' ingenious drop alone?
Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne?
Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train!
I charge thee, with my children flain!
Scarce has the fun thrice urg'd his annual tour, Since half my race have felt thy barbarous power;
Sore haft thou thinn'd each pleafing art,
And ftruck a mufe with every dart;
Bard, after bard, obey'd thy flaughtering call,
Till fcarce a poet lives to fing a brother's fall,
Then let a widow'd mother pay
The tribute of a parting. lay,
Tearful, infcribe the monumental ftrain,
And speak aloud, her feelings, and her pain!
And firft, farewel to thee, my fon, fhe cried,
Thou pride of Auburn's dale-fweet bard, farewel.
Long for thy fake, the peasants tears fhall flow,
And many a virgin bofom heave with woe,
For thee fhall forrow fadden all the scene,
And every paftime, perifh on the green;
The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale,
The woodman's ballad fhall no more regale,
No more fhall Mirth, each ruftic sport infpire,
But ev'ry frolic, every feat fhall tire.
No more the evening gambol thail delight,
Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night,
But groupes of villagers (each joy forgot)
Shall form, a fad affembly round the cot.
Sweet bard, farewel-and farewel, Auburn's blifs,
The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss;
The evening warble Philomela made,
The echoing foreft, and the whispering fhade,
The winding brook, the bleat of brute content,
And the blithe voice that "whistled as it went."
These shall no longer charm the plowman's care,
But fighs fhall fill, the paufes of defpair.
GOLDSMITH, adieu! the "book-learn'd priest"
Shall now in vain poffefs his feftive glee,
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