The noisy strings while venal idiots sweep,

O'er her neglected lyre shall Virtue sleep?

Nor, while false trophies deck the titled knave,

Drop one poor tear upon the good man's grave?
Forbid it gratitude! The pious Muse

With trembling hand the mournful theme pursues;
And Feeling's tear will consecrate the strain
Which flows unstudied at the tomb of RAINE.

Rever'd instructor of my early youth!

Whose words were wisdom and whose precepts truth;

Who, sent o'er Learning's temple to preside,
Didst rear the pillar of Carthusian pride;

Deep in all Grecian, in all Roman lore,

Skill'd in the page which later ages bore;
Discreetly resolute, and mildly firm,

In whom the Master was no odious term;

Who knew'st to temper dignity with love,

Submissive fears alike, and haughty threats above;

Whose judgment sound youth's various bent could scan,

And, while it taught the boy, foresaw the man;
Check'd the bold follies of licentious youth,

And train'd it up to virtue and to truth;

Bold to reprove, yet eager to commend,
At once thy pupils' Master, and their Friend;
-Oh were it mine with all the poet's art,
To probe the deep recesses of the heart,

Convey to ev'ry breast, in varied tone,

The mingled feelings which oppress my own;
The painful retrospect of youthful days,

The smile of candour and the look of praise;
The patient hand which infant Learning rear'd,
The mild reproof which, while it aw'd, endear'd
These could I picture with that nameless skill
Which bends th' obedient passions to its will,

Thrill ev'ry bosom with my pow'rful line,
And bid it beat in unison with mine;

-But vain the wish. Unskill'd to paint distress,

Or garnish sorrow with a gaudy dress;

To rear the torch, to cull the cypress leaf,

And lead my feelings through a pomp of grief;

My page no artificial numbers swell,

Studious alone the simple truth to tell;

Conscious of grief, a grief which passeth show, I want the trappings and the suits of woe.

But must I fail then? No, lamented shade!
Thy spirit views the grateful tribute paid.
My early Teacher, and my later Friend!
Whose name I'll love 'till life itself shall end,
No hireling muse that slender tribute pays,
The worthless instrument of worthless praise;

E'en while I write, the tears unbidden start
To tell it comes spontaneous from my heart:
Tho' rude, affectionate; sincere, tho' brief;
The unbought line of unaffected grief.

Ah little thought the Muse thy kindness rear'd,
Whose tim❜rous strains thy approbation cheer'd;
Little she thought her foremost page would show
The saddest task which gratitude can know:
Unfriended now she risks each infant lay,

No arm of thine to guide their dubious way:
But be it so! This poor attempt at least
Each gen'rous Critick still will hold releas'd;

This poor attempt, in which a grateful muse

With Love's last meed thy honour'd Name pursues;

And, worthily as her weak efforts can,

Thus fond records the Friend, the Scholar, and the Man.

Beats back the envious surge, and mocks its roar;

Nature's own fortress*! on whose hallow'd ground

Freedom secure a last retreat hath found;

Fain would the Muse attune her patriot lays,

A willing herald, to proclaim thy praise;

* This fortress, built by Nature for herself.

KING RICHARD II.