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Wisdom in sable garb array'd,
O, gently on tlıy suppliant's head,
Thy form benign, O Goddess ! wear,
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EATON COLLEGE.
Ye distant spires, ye antique tow'rs,
Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields belov'd in vain ! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain ! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresla their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to sooth, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Say, Father Thannes (for thou hast sech Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace), Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?
While some, on earnest business bent,
Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed,
Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to coine, No care beyond to day: Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train ! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd'rous band ! Ah, tell them, they are men !
These shall the fury passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pailid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind : Or pining Love shall waste their youth.,' Or Jealousy with rankling tooth; That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim visag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defild, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest wo. Lo, in the vale of
beneath A grisiy troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That ev'ry lab'ring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow consuming Age.
To cach his suffPrings : all are men,
ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the ylimin'ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a inould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: No children rụn to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glehe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow'r, And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, Await alike thi' inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem’ry o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where through the long drawn aisle, and fretted vauit, The realing anthem swells the note of praise, Can storied urn, er animated bust, Back to it's mansiou call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, · And waste it's sweetness on the desert air,