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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,
“ Weave the fun'ral web of Gray.”
'Tis done, 'tis done—the iron hand of pain,
With ruthless fury and corrosive force,
He sinks, he groans, he falls a lifeless corse.
Thus fades the flow'r nipp'd by the frozen gale,
Tho' once so sweet lovely to the eye:
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.
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 .
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.
 Elegy in a Country Church-Yard.
MR. GRAY's MONUMENT,
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
BY MR. MASON,
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.