On the Author of the Ballad Called the Children in the Wood

Let others praise the martial song, Which rushes as a flood, And round the harp attentive throng That honours deeds of blood:

Let me that humble Bard revere, Tho' artless be his theme, Who snatch'd the tale to Pity dear, From dark Oblivion's stream.

Say, little MARY, prattling maid, (Whose wit thine age excels) Beneath what holy yew-tree's shade Thy favourite Author dwells?

Ah! not on WESTMINSTER'S proud ground The fond enquiry waste: Go where the meek of heart are found, And th' unambitious rest.

Where WALTON'S limpid streamlet flows, On NORFOLK'S rich domain, A gently-rising hillock shews The hamlet's straw-roos'd fane.

Hard by is seen a marble stone, By many a winter worn; Forgetfulness around has thrown The rude o'ermantling thorn:

Within this low obscure abode Fame says the Bard is laid; Oft have I left the beaten road To greet the Poet's shade.

Fame too reports, that when the bier Receiv'd the Poet's frame, The neighb'ring Hamlets hasten'd here, And all the Childhood came:

Attir'd in white, an Infant Band Advanc'd in long array; With rosemary-leaves each little hand O'erspread the mournful way:

Encircling now the Poet's tomb, Thrice on his name they call, And thrice into the hallow'd gloom Sweet show'rs of violets fall.

Compassion's Priest! oh! feeling Bard, Who melts the heart away, Enduring praise shall still reward Thy short and simple lay.

Those shall thy praise be found among Whom Nature's touch has grac'd, The warm of heart applaud thy song, And all the pure of taste:

The Child shall leave his jocund dance, Suppress his frolic mood, And bend to hear, in silent trance, The Story of the Wood.