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“Hail, ye midnight sisters, hail,

“ Drive the shuttle swift along ; “ Let your secret charms prevail

“ O'er the valiant and the strong,

“ O'er the glory of the land,

« O’er the innocent and gay,
“ O'er the Muse's tuneful band-

“ Weave the fun'ral web of Gray.”

'Tis done, 'tis done—the iron hand of pain,

With ruthless fury and corrosive force,
Racks every joint, and seizes every vein:

He sinks, he groans, he falls a lifeless corse.

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Thus fades the flow'r nipp'd by the frozen gale,

Tho' once so sweet lovely to the eye:
Thus the tall oaks, when boist'rous storms assail,

Torn from the earth, a mighty ruin lie.

Ye sacred sisters of the plaintive verse,

Now let the stream of fond affection flow; O pay your tribute o'er the slow-drawn hearse,

With all the manly dignity of woe.

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Oft when the Curfew tolls its parting knell With solemn pause yon Church-yard's gloom

survey, While Sorrow's sighs and tears of Pity tell

How just the moral of the Poet's lay [75].

O'er his green grave, in Contemplation's guise,

Oft let the pilgrim drop a silent tear: Oft let the shepherd's tender accents rise,

Big with the sweets of each revolving year ; Till prostrate Time adore his deathless name, Fix'd on the solid base of adamantine fame.

[75] Elegy in a Country Church-Yard.

EPITAPH

ON

MR. GRAY's MONUMENT,

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

BY MR. MASON,

No

more the Grecian Muse unrivall’d reigns, To Britain let the nations homage pay! She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains,

A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of GRAY.

C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer,

Dean Street, Fetter Lane.

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