THE village bell tolls out the tone of death,
And thro' the echoing air, the length'ning sound,
With dreadful pause, reverberating deep,
Spreads the sad tidings o'er fair Auburn's vale.
There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had prais'd
In all the sweet simplicity of song,
Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat,
And herded jocund with the harınless swains:
But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell,
With started step, precipitate and swift,
And look pathetic, full of dire presage,
The church-way walk, beside the neighb'ring green,
Sorrowing she sought; and there, in black array,
Borne on the shoulders of the swains he lov'd,
She saw the boast of Auburn mov'd along.
Touch'd at the view, her pensive breast she struck,
And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs
With leaning slope, and branch irregular,
O'er the moss'd pillars of the sacred fane,
The briar-bound graves shad'wing with fun'ral gloom,
Forlorn she hied; and there the crowding woe
(Swell'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought,
Big ran the drops from her maternal eye,
Fast broke the bosom-sorrow from her heart,
And pale distress sat sickly on her cheek,
As thus her plaintive elegy began:
And must my children all expire ?
Shall none be left to strike the lyre?
Courts death alone a learned prize?
Fall his shafts only on the wise?
Can no fit marks on earth be found,
From useless thousands swarming round?
What crowding cyphers cram the land!
What hosts of victims, at command!
Yet shall th' ingenious drop alone?
Shall science grace the tyrant's throne?
Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train!
I charge thee with my children slain!
Scarce has the sun thrice urg'd his annual tour,
Since half my race have felt thy barb'rous pow'r;
Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art,
And struck a muse with ev'ry dart:
Bard after bard obey'd thy slaught❜ring call,
Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall;
Then let a widow'd mother pay
The tribute of a parting lay;
Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain,
And speak aloud her feelings and her pain!
And first, farewel to thee, my son, she cry'd,
Thou pride of Auburn's dale-sweet bard, farewel!
Long, for thy sake, the peasant's tear shall flow,
And many a virgin bosom heave with woe;
For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene,
And ev'ry pastime perish on the green:
The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale,
The woodman's ballad shall no more regale,
No more shall mirth each rustic sport inspire,
But ev'ry frolic, ev'ry feat shall tire:
No more the ev'ning gambol shall delight,
Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night,
But groups of villagers (each joy forgot)
Shall form a sad assembly round the cot.
Sweet bard, farewel-and farewel Auburn's bliss,
The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss;
The ev'ning warble Philomela made,
The echoing forest, and the whisp'ring shade,
The winding brook, the bleat of brute content,
And the blithe voice that "whistled as it went."
These shall no longer charm the ploughman's care,
But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair.
Goldsmith, adieu! the "book-learn'd priest" for
Shall now in vain possess his festive glee,
The oft-heard jest in vain he shall reveal,
For now, alas! the jest he cannot feel:
But ruddy damsels o'er thy tomb shall bend,
And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend;
The milk-maid shall reject the shepherd's song,
And cease to carol as she toils along;
All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day
When from her fields their pride was snatch'd away;
And e'en the matron of the cressy lake,
In piteous plight, her palsy'd head shall shake,
While all adown the furrows of her face
Slow shall the ling'ring tears each other trace.
And oh, my child! severer woes remain
To all the houseless and unshelter'd train:
Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest,
And heap fresh anguish on the beggar's breast:
For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain,
To all that wander, sorrow, or complain:
Dear to the learned, to the simple dear,
For daily blessings mark'd thy virtuous year;
The rich receiv'd a moral from thy head,
And from thy heart the stranger found a bed:
Distress came always smiling from thy door;
For God had made thee agent to the poor;
Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan,
To grace at once the poet and the man.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
DARK
as the night, which now in dunnest robę
Ascends her zenith o'er the silent globe,
Sad Melancholy wakes, awhile to tread,
With solemn step, the mansions of the dead:
Led by her hand, o'er this yet recent shrine
I sorrowing bend, and here essay to twine
The tributary wreath of laureate bloom,
With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb;
The tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes,
No more your airy dreams shall mock
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