A Pastoral Elegy, on the Death of Jackson, the Musical Composer
O Shepherds! 'tis CORYDON'S knell, That, sounding, now saddens the wind: When he bade us for ever farewell, He left not an equal behind. How often ye dwelt on his strain, That fill'd with sweet echoes the grove! How happy the nymphs of the plain, When he soften'd the bosom to love! Our garlands his tomb shall adorn; His shade shall our praises receive; The lark shall salute him at morn, And Philomel soothe him at eve. Near his ashes the myrtle shall bloom, Which PITY will plant with a sigh, And, oft as she visits his tomb, Lament that such merit should die. He sought not false fame to obtain: To the SHEPHERD no art did belong; SIMPLICITY taught him her strain; SIMPLICITY govern'd his song. Lo! his reed that lies mute on the ground,— For with him its sweet sorrows depart! For like him, none can give it a sound, That tell's a fond tale of the HEART!
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