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n, which the Bard, While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame, Enamoured consecrates to never-dying fame. LVIII. Of late, with cumbersome, though pompous show, Edwin would oft his flowery rhyme deface, Through ardour to adorn; but Nature now To his experienced eye a modest grace Presents, where Ornament the second place Holds, to intrinsic worth and just design Subservient still. Simplicity apace Tempers his rage: he owns her charm divine, And clears the ambiguous phrase, and lops the unwieldy line. LIX. Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains) What sweet delirium o'er his bosom stole, When the great Shepherd of the Mantuan plains His deep majestic melody 'gan roll: Fain would I sing, what transport stormed his soul, How the red current throbbed his veins along, When, like Pelides, bold beyond controul, Gracefully terrible, sublimely strong, Homer raised high to heaven the loud, the impetuous song. LX. And how his lyre, though rude her first essays, Now skilled to sooth, to triumph, to complain, Warbling at will through each harmonious maze, Was taught to modulate the artful strain, I fain would sing: but ah! I strive in vain. Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound. With trembling step, to join yon weeping train, I haste, where gleams funereal glare around, And, mixed with shrieks of woe, the knells of death resound. LXI. Adieu, ye lays, that fancy's flowers adorn, The soft amusement of the vacant mind! He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn, He, whom each virtue fired, each grace refined, Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind! He sleeps in dust. Ah! how should I pursue My theme! To heart-consuming grief resigned, Here, on his recent grave I fix my view, And pour my bitter tears.--Ye flowery lays, adieu! LXII. Art thou, my GREGORY, for ever fled! And am I left to unavailing woe! When fortune's storms assail this weary head, Where cares long since have shed untimely snow, Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go! No more thy soothing voice my anguish chears: Thy placid eyes with smi
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