"More blest than me, thus shall ye live
Your little day; and when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful Muse shall give
A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.
"While I alas! no distant date,
Mix with the dust from whence I came,
Without a friend to weep my fate.
Without a stone to tell my name."
We subjoin one more specimen of these "wild strains"[1]said to be "Written two years after the preceding." Ecce iterum Crispinus.
"I wish I was where Anna lies;
For I am sick of lingering here.
And every hour Affection cries,
Go, and partake her humble bier.
"I wish I could! for when she died
I lost my all; and life has prov'd
Since that sad hour a dreary void,
A waste unlovely and unlov'd.
"But who, when I am turn'd to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair.
And pluck the ragged moss away,
And weeds that have "no business there?"
- ↑ "How oft, O Dart! what time the faithful pair
Walk'd forth, the fragrant hour of eve to share.
On thy romantic banks, have my wild strains
(Not yet forgot amidst my native plains)
While thou hast sweetly gurgled down the vale.
Filled up the pause of love's delightful tale!
