Thus wrapp’d in mournful thoughts, I paced along That vast and silent precinct, as behind Roves some unbodied shade the tombs among; The ties me yet to this low earth that bind I felt to loosen, and the soul set free Launch’d itself forth, ev’n into endless space, Leaving behind it ages.--Couldst thou see What is this wretched life, compared its trace With that immensity, most surely, friend, In thine eyes would remain congeal’d those tears, Which now profuse thou shedd’st, and thou wouldst bend Down on the earth thy gaze, where soon appears, Thyself must see, the end of all our toil; The rest that she enjoys beyond the sky, For whom thou weep’st, whilst o’er this care-worn soil Dragging life’s heavy burden, as do I. Yet till ’tis granted thee to meet again Thy lost adored, the moments consecrate Of absence to her memory that remain: Thy heart let her remembrance animate; Let thy lips ever her dear name repeat: Nor how forget that clear ingenuous mind, That heavenly beauty, generous soul, to meet So rare! the world admired such gifts combined. But now I see thee to the dusky grove Of cypress and rose-bay trees take thy way; On thy right hand a crown is hanging, wove Of mournful everlastings; nor astray Thine eyes scarce raising, fearing to behold The monument of thine eternal grief, That guards her ashes! Different she consoled, Hastening in charity, as for relief The poor unhappy and the orphans knew! For whom she ever show’d a parent’s care: They who partook her gifts and kindness true, Now in long files and slow, thy griefs to share Silent and mournful on thy steps attend, Around her tomb; dost thou not hear them? theirs, Theirs are the tearful sobbings that ascend, And cries that interrupt the funeral prayers. Not ev’n a flower to deck her sepulchre, Have I to send thee! flowers may not be grown To bud in beds of ice; or if they were, They soon would wither at my touch alone. ANACREONTIC. Let the thunder burst, Pour out and drink the wine! Thou never saw’st a thunderbolt Strike the tender vine. Vesuvius himself To Bacchus tribute pays, And spares the vineyard flourishing, Where his lava sways. In Italy in vain I hero sought or sage; Mine eyes but dusty ruins found, Mouldering with age. Of Rome the image scarce Remains to be portray’d; A tomb is Herculaneum, Pompeii is a shade. But I found Falernum, His nectar rich remain’d, And in memory of Horace, A bottleful I drain’d. BACCHANALIAN. In chorus we sing, of wine, sweet wine, Its power benign, and its flavour divine.