And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,

Foil'd by Asclepiades.

Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn

Helicon and Cirrha mourn,

Still hadst fill'd thy princely place,

Regent of the gowned race.

Hadst advanc'd to higher fame

Still, thy much-ennobled name,

Nor in Charon's skiff explor'd

The Tartarean gulph abhorr❜d.

But resentful Proserpine,

Jealous of thy skill divine,

Snapping short thy vital thread,

Thee too number'd with the dead.

Wise and good! untroubled be

The green turf, that covers thee!

Thence, in gay profusion, grow

All the sweetest flow'rs that blow!

Pluto's consort bid thee rest!
Eacus pronounce thee blest!
To her home thy shade consign!
Make Elysium ever thine!

ON THE

DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY.

Written in the Author's 17th Year.

My lids with grief were tumid yet,
And still my sullied cheek was wet

With briny tears, profusely shed

For venerable Winton dead;

When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound,

Alas! are ever truest found,

The news through all our cities spread
Of yet another mitred head

By ruthless fate to death consign'd,
Ely, the honour of his kind!

At once, a storm of passion heav'd My boiling bosom, much I griev'd, But more I rag'd, at ev'ry breath Devoting Death himself to death. With less revenge did Naso teem, When hated Ibis was his theme;

With less, Archilochus, denied

The lovely Greek, his promis'd bride.

But lo! while thus I execrate,

Incens'd, the minister of fate,

Wond'rous accents, soft, yet clear,

Wafted on the gale I hear.

"Ah, much deluded! lay aside

Thy threats, and anger misapplied!

Art not afraid with sounds like these

T' offend, where thou canst not appease? Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus?) The son of Night, and Erebus;

Nor was of fell Erynnis born

On gulphs, where Chaos rules forlorn :
But, sent from God, his presence leaves,
To gather home his ripen'd sheaves,
To call encumber'd souls away

From fleshly bonds to boundless day,
(As when the winged hours excite,
And summon forth the morning-light)
And each to convoy to her place

Before th' Eternal Father's face.
But not the wicked-them, severe

Yet just, from all their pleasures here
He hurries to the realms below,

Terrific realms of penal woe!

Myself no sooner heard his call,

Than, scaping through my prison-wall,

I bade adieu to bolts and bars,

And soar'd, with angels, to the stars,
Like him of old, to whom 'twas giv'n
To mount, on fiery wheels, to heav'n.
Boötes' waggon, slow with cold,
Appall'd me not; nor to behold
The sword, that vast Orion draws,
Or ev❜n the Scorpion's horrid claws.
Beyond the Sun's bright orb I fly,
And, far beneath my feet, descry
Night's dread goddess, seen with awe,
Whom her winged dragons draw.
Thus, ever wond'ring at my speed,
Augmented still as I proceed,
I pass the planetary sphere,
The Milky Way-and now appear
Heav'n's crystal battlements, her door
Of massy pearl, and emʼrald floor.

But here I cease. For never can'

The tongue of once a mortal man