_A GREAT MAN_
Ye muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch'd away:
For had he liv'd another year!
--He had not dy'd to-day.
O, were he born to bless mankind,
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind!
--Whene'er he went before.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep:
Even pitying hills would drop a tear!
--If hills could learn to weep.
His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display:
Since none implor'd relief in vain!
--That went reliev'd away.
And hark! I hear the tuneful throng;
His obsequies forbid.
He still shall live, shall live as long
--As ever dead man did.
_Oliver Goldsmith_.
_AN ELEGY_
_On the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize_
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word--
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor--
Who left a pledge behind.
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