Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again One ditty more, and on the mountain ash I will again suspend thee. I have felt The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, I woke to thee the melancholy song. Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks Of frolic fancy to the line of truth; Not unrepining, for my froward heart Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow Of spring-gales past--the woods and storied haunts Of my not songless boyhood.--Yet once more, Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink; The good, the brave--he must not, shall not sink Without the meed of some melodious tear. Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour No precious dews of Aganippe's well, Or Castaly,--though from the morning cloud I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse: Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too, If ever I have loved, with faltering step, To follow thee in the cold and starless night, To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, The dying soul's viaticum; if oft Amid the carnage of the field I've sate With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, With mercy and forgiveness--visitant Of Heaven--sit thou upon my harp, And give it feeling, which were else too cold For argument so great, for theme so high. How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when-- * * * * * EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name Ensures continuance to thy fame; Both sense and truth this verdict give, While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live! ELEGY OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802. He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along, The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath; And rising sad the rustling sedge among, The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death. Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear To snatch the victim from thy felon wave! Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, And deck with waterflags his early grave. Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide. The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye, The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, I mark them rise--I mark the general sigh! Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?