Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise! ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON, BY MR. COLLINS. The sone of the following Stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmoud. IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; · The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave! In yon deep bed of whispering reeds That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds Then maids and youths shall linger here, To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, When Thames in summer wreaths is drést; And oft suspend the dashing oar, And oft as ease and health retire, To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, But Thou! who own'st that earthy bed, Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide And see the fairy valleys fade; Dun night has veil'd the solemn view! The genial meads, assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; There hinds, and shepherd-girls, shall dress, With simple hands, thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay, FINIS. |