Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain, Which late they fann'd: now other scenes than dales Of woody pride, succeed, or flow'ry vales: As when a sudden tempest veils the sky, Here paus'd the fell destroyer to survey The pride, the boast of man, his destin'd prey; Oh, Goldsmith! how shall sorrow now essay To murmur out her slow incondite lay? In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour, But, ah! with thee my guardian Genius fled, Where hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore Shall travel on, till Nature is no more? |