For an Urn in Thoresby Park

With frigid art our numbers flow
For joy unfelt and fabled woe;
And listless are the poet's dreams
Of pastoral pipe and haunted streams.
All Nature's boundless reign is theirs,
But most her triumphs and her tears.
They try, nor vainly try, their power
To cheer misfortune's lonely hour;
Whether they raise the laurel'd head,
Or stoop beneath the peasant's shed,
They pass the glory they bestow,
And shine above the light they throw.
To Valour, in his car of lire,
Shall Genius strike the solemn lyre:
A Bion's fall shall Manvers mourn,
And Virtue raise the vacant urn.