Classic Poem

WRITTEN AT MIDHURST IN SUSSEX ,

On the Author's return from Chichester, where he had attempted in vain to find the Burial place of Collins.

T O view the beauties of my native land,
O'er many a pleasing distant scene I rove:
Now climb the rock, or wander on the strand,
Or trace the rill, or penetrate the grove.

From Bala's hills, from Portsea's spreading wave,
To fair Cicestria's lonely walls I stray;
To her fam'd Poet's venerated grave,
Anxious my tribute of respect to pay.

O'er the dim pavement of the solemn fane,
Midst the rude stones that crowd the' adjoining space,
The sacred spot I seek, but seek in vain;
In vain I ask — for none can point the place.

What boots the eye, whose quick observant glance
Marks every nobler, every fairer form?
What the skill'd ear, that sound's sweet charms entrance,
And the fond breast with generous passion warm?

What boots the power each image to portray,
The power with force each feeling to express?
How vain the hope that through Life's little day,
The soul with thought of future fame can bless?

While Folly frequent boasts the' inscuiptur'd tomb,
By Flattery's pen inscrib'd with purchas'd praise;
While rustic Labour's undistinguish'd doom
Fond Friendship's hand records in humble phrase;

Of Genius oft and Learning worse the lot;
For them no care, to them no honour shown,
Alive neglected, and when dead forgot,
Ev'n Collins slumbers in a grave unknown.

Flow, Lavant, flow! along thy sedgy shore
Bear the fraught vessel from the neighbouring main!
Enrich thy sons! — but on thy banks no more
May lofty Poet breathe his tuneful strain!