Thou hast a higher, and a happier lot!
The prime of blessings, in a world like this,
Is early transit to the realms of bliss:
Thence thy pure spirit oft will charm to rest
Those pangs of fond regret, that pierce my breast,
When recollection mournfully surveys
Unfinish'd products of thy studious days.
Ah what a host of filial fair designs:
Where, springing from the heart, the fancy shines,
Thy enterprising mind had here bestow'd,
To honour Felpham as thy sire's abode!
All to thy mental eyes were present here;
The scene, we join'd to deck, all yet endear,
Tho' hardly embrios of plastic grace,
Many yet want their features, and their place.
These vacant circlets, that still court mine eye,
Can I survey, without a bursting sigh,
When fond remembrance tells me that from these
Thy filial hand, tho' robb'd of strength and ease,
Yet inly conscious of ingenious power,
Resolv'd, in labour's first reviving hour,
To fashion portraits claiming just regard,
The Tuscan sculptor! and the Grecian bard!
Whom 'twas thy hope in marble to create
As honour'd guardians of thy poet's gate;
There is no spot within this Villa's bound,
E'en to the Turret's topmost airy round,
Which thy kind fancy, that no ills could check.
With sweet ideal projects fail'd to deck:
Eager to fix around, below, above,