To Mr. R. D. on the Death of Mr. Shenstone

'Tis past, my Friend! the transient scene is clos'd! The fairy pile, th' enchanted vision, rais'd By Damon's magic skill is lost in air!

What tho' the lawns and pendent woods remain, Each tinkling stream, each rushing cataract, With lapse incessant echoes thro' the dale? Yet what avails the lifeless landscape now? The charm's dissolv'd; the Genius of the wood, Alas! is flown—for Damon is no more.

As when from fair Lycaeum, crown'd with pines, Or Maenalus, with leaves autumnal strew'd, The tuneful Pan retires, the vocal hills Resound no more, and all Arcadia mourns.

Yet here we fondly dream'd of lasting joys; Here we had hop'd, from noisy throngs retir'd, To drink large draughts of Friendship's cordial stream, In sweet oblivion wrapt, by Damon's verse, And social converse, many a summer's day.

Romantic wish! in vain frail mortals trace Th' imperfect sketch of human bliss—Whilst yet Th' enraptur'd sire his well-plann'd structure views Majestic rising 'midst his infant groves, Sees the dark laurel spread its glossy shade, Its languid bloom the purple lilac blend, Or pale laburnum drop its pensile chain, Death spreads the fatal shaft, and bids his heir Transplant the cypress round his father's tomb.

Oh! teach me then, like you, my Friend! to raise To moral truths my grov'lling song; for, ah! Too long, by lawless Fancy led astray, Of Nymphs and groves I've dream'd, and dancing Fauns, Or Naïad leaning o'er her tinkling urn. Oh! could I learn to sanctify my strains With hymns, like those by tuneful Meyrick sung— Or rather catch the melancholy sounds From Warton's reed, or Mason's lyre—to paint The sudden gloom that damps my soul—But see! Melpomene herself has snatch'd the pipe With which sad Lyttleton his Lucia mourn'd, And plaintive cries, My Shenstone is no more!