Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes, Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies: Celestial-like her bounty fell, Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell; Want pass’d for merit at her door, Unseen the modest were supplied; Her constant pity fed the poor-- Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine, And art exhausts profusion round, The tribute of a tear be mine, A simple song, a sigh profound. There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,[39] To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay; And calm Religion shall repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there. Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree To blend their virtues, while they think of thee. _Air.--Chorus.--Pomposo._ Let us, let all the world agree To profit by resembling thee. PART II. _Overture._--_Pastorale._ MAN _Speaker_. Fast by that shore where Thames’ translucent stream Reflects new glories on his breast, Where, splendid as the youthful poet’s dream, He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest-- Where sculptur’d elegance and native grace Unite to stamp the beauties of the place, While sweetly blending still are seen The wavy lawn, the sloping green-- While novelty, with cautious cunning, Through every maze of fancy running, From China borrows aid to deck the scene-- There, sorrowing by the river’s glassy bed, Forlorn, a rural band complain’d, All whom Augusta’s bounty fed, All whom her clemency sustain’d; The good old sire, unconscious of decay, The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey, The military boy, the orphan’d maid, The shatter’d veteran, now first dismay’d: These sadly join beside the murmuring deep; And, as they view The towers of Kew, Call on their Mistress--now no more--and weep. [Illustration] _Chorus._ Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes-- Let all your echoes now deplore, That she who form’d your beauties is no more! MAN _Speaker._ First of the train, the patient rustic came, Whose callous hand had form’d the scene, Bending at once with sorrow and with age, With many a tear and many a sigh between; “And where,” he cried, “shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire? No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, Nor can my strength perform what they require; Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare-- A sleek and idle race is all their care. My noble Mistress thought not so: Her bounty, like the morning dew, Unseen, though constant, us’d to flow; And as my strength decay’d, her bounty grew.” WOMAN _Speaker_.