On Thomson’s tomb the dewy drops distil,
Soft tears of Pity shed for Pope’s lost fame [sic, for ‘fane’, i.e. temple],
To worth and verse adheres sad memory still,
Scorning to wear ensnaring fashion’s chain.
In silence go, fair Thames, for all is laid;
His pastoral reeds untied, and reeds unstrung,
Sunk in their harmony in Twickenham’s glade,
While flows thy stream, unheeded and unsung
Resplendent Seasons! chase oblivion’s shade,
Where liberal hands bid Thomson’s lyre arise;
From Putney’s height he nature’s hues survey’d,
And mark’d each beauty with enraptur’d eyes.
The kindly place amid thy upland groves
Th’ Æolian harp, attun’d to nature’s strains,
Melliferous greeting every air that roves
From Thames’ broad bosom or her verdant plains,
Inspiring Spring! with renovating fire,
Well pleas’d, rebind those reeds Alexis play’d,
And breathing balmy kisses to the Lyre.
Give one soft note to lost Alexis’ shade.
Let Summer shed her many blossoms fair,
To shield the trembling strings in noon-tide ray;
While ever and anon the dulcet air
Shall rapturous thrill, or sigh in sweets away.
Bind not the Poppy in the golden hair,
Autumn! kind giver of the full ear’d sheaf;
Those notes have often echo’d to thy care
Check not their sweetness with thy falling leaf.
Winter! thy sharp cold winds bespeak decay;
Thy snow-fraught robe with let pity ’zone entwine,
That gen’rous care shall memory repay,
Bending with her o’er
Thomson’s hallow’d shrine
3
