Rev. Joseph Warton

J. M., "Translation of Greek Verses on Dr. Joseph Warton, in Vol. LXX" Gentleman's Magazine 71 (February 1801) 163.

Alas! he's gone, by Death's dire stroke he's slain,
Dear to Apollo, and the Muses' train.
Who, Tit'rus, now poetic comments yields
On thee descanting in paternal fields?
Who now o'er Gallus' love in pity mourns,
But from whose pains Lycoris scornful turns?
No budding trees in beauteous order rear'd,
Nor lowing herds, nor bleating flocks are heard;
No well-till'd fields their wonted pleasure give,
Nor grateful murmurs of the busy hive.
Who now to Britain's Orpheus' mournful plaints
For his lost wife in Maro's numbers paints?
Echo his plaints, resounded far and near,
To the inhabitants of earth and air.
The Indian scorn'd his arrows, and his crown
Requiting thus parental favours shown.
Tearing her hair and breasts, wild Fancy stands;
Down drops her harp, beneath her trembling hands,
'Till, "thy son lives," the whisp'ring Zephyr tells,
In those bless'd mansions where thy brother dwells;
Sitting in meads, where various flow'rs combine
To hear the poets chant their songs divine;
Dryden's grand ode, and Gray's triumphant car,
And Spenser's sighs, how pleasingly severe;
With Milton's wond'rous voice, and Homer's fire,
And daring flights of Pindar's doric lyre.