No birds in our hedges shall sing,

(Our hedges so vocal before)

Since he that should welcome the spring,
Salutes the gay season no more.

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd-they envy'd his lays,

But which of them equall'd his song?
Ye shepherds! henceforward be mute,

For lost is the pastoral strain;

So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

BY WILLIAM COLLINS.

The scene of the following stanzes is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

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 whisp'ring reeds

*

His airy harp shall now be laid,

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love thro' life the soothing shade.

* The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the "Castle of Indolence."

Then maids and youths shall linger here,

And while its sounds at distance swell,

Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear,

To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,

And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawu, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening † spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

* Richmond Church, in which Mr. Thomson was

buried.

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail ?
Or tears, which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near?
With him, sweet Bard! may fancy die,

And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream! whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,

Now waft me from the green hill's side,

Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade!

Meek Nature's child! again adieu!

238 ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.

The Genial meads * assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!

Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress

With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes ;

Oh vales and wild woods! shall he say

In yonder grave your Druid lies!

*Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of

Richmond some time before his death.