Then had thy turrets stood in all their state, Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall, Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate, And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall. Then had the village youth at vernal hour Hung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate, And blest in gratitude that sovereign power That made the man of mercy good as great. The traveller then to view thy towers had stood, Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name, And call'd on heaven to give thee every good, And told abroad thy hospitable fame. In every joy of life the hours had fled, Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by, 'Till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head, Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die. And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around The ample wealth by lavish fortune given, Thy parted spirit had that justice found, And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven. BION. * * * * * ELEGY. THE DECAYED FARM-HOUSE. 'Mid mighty ruins mould'ring to decay, The letter'd traveller delights to roam; The antique pile or column to survey, And trace faint legends on the crumbling dome. They court proud cities of historic name, By desolation's giant arm subdu'd, And meditate the spot once dear to fame, Where Balbec flourish'd, or Palmyra stood. The muse delights to court a lone retreat, And far from these illustrious scenes to stray; Uprear'd by folly for ambition's seat, By vice and folly fall'n, now tottering to decay. She loves to meditate the humbler spot, Where untrick'd nature pours the rude sublime; Where rural hands have rear'd the rural cot, Decaying now beneath the touch of time. "Yon farm-house totters, by the tempest beat, The marks of age its antique chimnies bear; Sure no sad master owns the cheerless seat, Say, passing shepherd, who has sojourn'd there?" 'Forgive the sigh,' the rustic swain reply'd, 'These desert scenes my happier days recall; Forgive the tears which down my cheeks yglide, For when I view this spot, my tears will fall. 'Stranger!' said he, 'here late did GRATIO dwell, Hast thou not heard of good old GRATIO's fame? Through all our village he was known full well, And even lisping infants spoke his name. 'Twice twenty years I serv'd him as his hind, Twice twenty years for him I till'd the soil; I lov'd my master, for I found him kind, My task was easy, and I blest my toil. 'He seem'd not master, but an equal friend; He join'd our labours in the field by day, And when the evening bade our labours end, He mingled freely in our rustic play.