1816.] 



I 429 1 

 ORIGINAL POETRY. 



The TO^IB of COLLINS, in CHI- 

 CHESTER CATHEDRAL. 



HERE Collins sleeps, whose tender breast 

 With Pity's ioftest touch was bless'd ; 

 Bless'd with those joys that only spring 

 When Pity stoops her balmy wing. 

 And from the skies, a welcome guest. 

 Thrills through the kindred mourner's breast. 

 Aye, Collins, such the joys you knew. 

 Whilst Pleasure's roses round thee blew ; 

 But, ah ! how dread thy latter doom, 

 That brought thee to this hallow'd tomb. 



The laurel'd wreath, the myrtles gay, 

 Whose bloom had deck'd thy better day, 

 And e'en thy high-inspir'd mind : 



Brush'd by the rude and riitSan sweep 



Of black Misfortune's hand; 



Gone is the myrtle's brilliant hue, the mind 

 decays, the laurel'd band, 



That erst so well ihy temples bound. 



Now twines thy broken lute around, 



Whose notes, soft sighing to the breeze, lament 



But list! it flies, 



It sinks, it dies, 



In a slow majestic fall. 



Whose long vibrations shake the lofty wallj 



Till distant heard, one solemn note 



Comes with sweet undulating float, 



Upon the soft wings of the charmed air. 



Great bard, thus where thy ashes sleep 



The varied streams of mu-ic roll. 

 On Fancy's ear they wildly sweep. 



And renovate thy soul. 

 Say ! heaid ye not th.it magic strain. 



That mingled with ;he mortal choir, 

 'Twas Collins self that spoke again, 



And touch'd the impassion'd lyre.j 

 See rising at the thrilling ound, 



Wild terror breaks the silent tomt. 

 Begirt with shadowy raoiisiers round. 



And veiled in murky gloom. 

 Varying with the changins st.ain. 



Airy shapes in tumult rise. 

 Anger fierce, distorted pain. 



That rends the vault with hideous Cries. 



thy lot unkind.* . ... 



Gone is the bard whose mighty strains could Once agam the notes breathe slow, 



■ Strains symphonious melt in air ; 



In wildest t'rain, Sudaer, flies the pageant shov, _ 



The pas.ions of the mind, . Back recoils, halt seen, Despair- 



The fire that bade dun flickering visions live, 

 Ta'en. 



In light Fancy's web, by eloquence refin'd, 

 Gone ! gone ! gone ! 

 To that lone house confin'd. 

 The dread dark bourne of thee and all man- 



kind. 

 And didst thou mourn thy hapless brother's By thy gently smiling brow, 



fate, By thy gla^s, whose shadows shevT 



Bid Pity weeping tell her votary's tale,+ Future joys, midst present woe ; 



And shall no bard, in plaintive strains relate, By thy golden waving hair. 

 The sorrows of thy doom, and bid the wild Vernal cheek, and bosom fair 



Lo ! what form divinely bright 

 Floats in streams of purple light ; 

 Moving to the dulcet measure, 

 Brenthing awe and chastest pleasure; 

 'Tis the mortal-loving maid, 

 Labt to fly, and first to aid,— 

 Hope, enchanting Hope, 'tis thou. 



harp wail : 



Yes, Collins, to thy sacred tomb, 



A bard, to Fame's loud voice unknown, 



Has conie to gaze, to sigh, to moan. 



Then pass unnotic'd and alone, 



Sad musing on thy doom. 



Hark, how the pillar'd aisle along,f 



Pours the Icud voice of sacred song ; 



Now gently sinking, murmuring, dying. 



Like cherub choir, on some wild cloud flying ; 



Now swelling, thrilling, thundering round, 



Awful sweeps the echoing sound ; 



Down the aisles triumphant flowing. 



Strains with hope and rapture glowing, 



'J'o the Internal's throne our praises bear. 



• These lines allude to that dfeadful 

 malady wh.ch, for some time before the 

 death of Collln^, destroyed the powers of his 

 mind. 



•f Otway, whom Collins so beautifully de- 

 scribes in his Ode lo Pity. 



J This, and the immediately following 

 lines wtre written whilst the awful and im- 

 pietjive service ot the cathedral wa» per- 

 forming. 



This the goddess of ihy praise, 

 Collins, in thy halcyon days. 



Again ! again, the uproar loud 



Bursts upon the startled ear; 

 Again returns ihe yelling croud, 



Led on by frantic Fear. 

 He starts, he shrinks, at every wind. 

 And strives, but dare not, look behind. 



But, O ! what yell terrific burst 

 From the mansions ol the dead? 



'Twas moody Madness' laugh accurs'd. 

 By wild Remorse and Honor led. 



Such, Collins, was the iear.ul fuest 



Tliat led, through agony, thy soul to rest. 



• This pageant of the passions, raised 

 round the tomb of Collins, alludes to the 

 ability which he possessed of personifying 

 the human feelings, and with which, pei« 

 haps, no subsequent poet, Cray excepted, 

 has hecn equally gifted. The kind reader 

 will perhaps find an excuse for the appear- 

 ance of these phantoms — the author himself 

 liAS Qone. 



Tber 



