Here frequent, at the visionary hour,
When musing midnight reigns or silent noon,
Angelic harps are in full concert heard,
And voices chaunting from the wood-crown'd hill,
The deepening dale, or inmost sylvan glade:560
A privilege bellow'd by us, alone,
On contemplation, or the hallow'd ear
Of Poet, swelling to seraphic strain."
And art thou, Stanley[1], of that sacred band?
Alas, for us too soon!—tho' rais'd above565
The reach of human pain, above the flight
Of human joy; yet, with a mingled ray
Of sadly-pleas'd remembrance, must thou feel
A mother's love, a mother's tender woe:
Who seeks thee still, in many a former scene;570
Seeks thy fair form, thy lovely-beaming eyes,
Thy pleasing converse, by gay lively sense
Inspir'd; where moral wisdom mildly shone,
Without the toil of art; and virtue glow'd,
In all her smiles, without forbidding pride.575
But, O thou best of parents! wipe thy tears;
Or rather to Parental Nature pay
The tears of grateful joy, who for a while
Lent thee this younger-self, this opening bloom
Of thy enlighten'd mind and gentle worth.580
Believe the Muse: the wintry blast of death
Kills not the buds of virtue; no, they spread,
Beneath the heavenly beam of brighter suns,
Thro' endless ages, into higher powers.
Thus up the mount, in airy vision rapt,585
I stray, regardless whither; till the sound
- ↑ A young Lady, well known to the Author, who died at the age of eighteen, in the Year 1738.
