The Tears of Genius

The village-bell tolls out the note of death, And thro' the echoing air, the length'ning sound, With dreadful pause, reverberating deep; Spreads the sad tydings, 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 harmless swains: But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell, With startled 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 shadowing with funeral 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? Falls 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 barbarous power; Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art, And struck a muse with every dart:

Bard, after bard, obey'd thy slaughtering 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 cried, Thou pride of Auburn's Dale—sweet bard, farewel.

Long for thy sake, the peasants tear shall flow, And many a virgin-bosom heave with woe, For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene, And every 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, I ut every frolic, every feat, shall tire. No more the evening gambol shall delight, Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night, But groupes 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 evening warble Philomela made, The echoing forest, and the whispering shade, The winding brook, the bleat of brute content, And the blithe voice that "whistled as it went." These shall no longer charm the plowman's care, But sighs shall fill, the pauses of despair.

GOLDSMITH adieu! the "book-learn'd priest" for thee 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 milkmaid 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 even the matron of the cressy lake In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake, While all adown the furrows of her face Slow shall the lingering 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. Here GENIUS paus'd to dry the gathering tear, Which Nature started in her matron eye. She paus'd an instant, then the strain renew'd.

THEE too, thou favourite of the moral strain, Pathetic GRAY; for thee does GENIUS mourn: Science and Taste, thy early fate shall plain, And Virtue drop a tear into thy urn.

Oft as Night's curtain closes on the day, And twilight robes the clouds in duskier hue, A love-lone visit to thy tomb I pay, While all the parent trembles at the view.

For how to the unconscious worm a prey, So dear a child as thee can I resign? Ah, how can GENIUS e'er forget her GRAY? Poet of Nature; all my powers, were thine! On thy blest name, with melted heart I dwell, Some kindred drops, a loss like thine, demands; Thou, who could once for others, wail so well, Now take THY tribute from a mother's hands.

Tho' the grav'd tomb, and cloud aspiring bust To Cam's clear margin, call not back thy breath, Yet shall fair Fame immortalize thy dust, And GENIUS snatch thee from the realms of death.

Oft as I reach the spot where thou art laid, Thou, whose bright sense could boast "celestial fire," Those hands, I cry, the Muses scepter sway'd, "And wak'd to extacy the living lyre."

One morn I miss'd thee from the favourite tree, And anxious search'd the brook, the lawn, the grove; Another came, but ah, it was not thee! Oh the keen tortures of a parent's love! Next, thro' the sculptur'd porch I saw thee borne In slow procession by the sable train, I saw thy corpse entomb'd beneath the thorn, And o'er thy ashes sigh'd this funeral strain.