ODE

ON THE SPRING.

O! where the rofy-bofom'd hours, Fair Venus train appear, Difclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Refponfive to the cuckow's note, The untaught harmony of spring: While, whispering pleafure as they fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Wheree'r the oak's thick branches ftretch A broader browner fhade;

Where'er the rude and mofs-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade*,

Befide fome water's rufby brink

With me the Mufe fhall fit, and think (At cafe reclin'd in ruftic ftate)

How vain the ardeur of the Crowd,

How low, how little are the Proud,

How indigent the Creat!

O'er-canopied with luscious woodbine,"

a bank

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the Bufy and the Gay

But flutter through life's little day.

In Fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in duft to reft.

Methinks I hear in accents low
The fportive kind reply;

Poor Moralift! and what art thou?
A folitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded fweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hafty wings thy youth is flown
Thy fun is fet, thy fpring is gone-
We frolick while 'tis May.

Her confcious tail her joy declar'd; The fair round face, the fnowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,

ተ "Nare per æftatem liquidam

Virg. Georg. lib. iv. Sporting with quick glance Shew to the fun be`r waved coats drop'd with gold." Milton's Paradife Loft, book vii. S" While infects from the threshold preach, Sc." M. Green, in the Grotto. Dodley's Mifcellanies, vol, v. p. 161,

Still had fhe gaz’d; but midft the tide
Two angel forms were feen to glide,
The Genii of the ftream:
Their fcaly armour's Lyrian hue
Through richeft purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.、

E diftant fpires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful fcience still adores

*

Her Henry's holy fhade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windfor's heights th' expanfe below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey,

Whofe turf, whofe fhade, whofe flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His filver-winding way.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleafing fhade,

Ah, fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A ftranger yet to pain?

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,

A momentary blifs bestow,

As waving fresh their gladfome wing,
My weary foul they seem to footh,
And, † redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
Difporting 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 enthrall?
What idle progeny fucceed

To chace the rolling circle's fpeed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While fome on earnest bufinefs bent
Their murmuring labours ply

'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint To fweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers difdain

The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare defcry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And fnatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,
Let's pleafing, when poffeft;
The tear forgot as foon as fhed,
The funshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health, of rofy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively chear, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No fenfe have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Yet fee how all around them wait

The minifters of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train,
Ah, fhew them where in ambush stand
To feize their prey, the murtherous band!
Ah, tell them, they are men!

Thefe fhall the fury paflions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Difdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love fhall wafte their youth,
Or Jealoufy, with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the fecret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-vifag'd comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this fhall tempt to rife,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy,

The flings of Falihood thofe fhall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorfe, with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid fevereft woc.

✦ — Madness laughing in his ireful mood.” Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A grifly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their Queen:

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

That every labouring finew ftrains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the foul with icy hand,
And flow-confuming Age.

To each his fufferings all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why fhould they know their fate!
Since Sorrow never comes too late,
And Happinefs too fwiftly flies.
Thought would deftroy their paradife.
No more; where Ignorance is blifs,
"Tis folly to be wife.

Still on thy folemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the general Friend,
With Justice, to herself fevere,

And Pity, dropping foft the fadly-pleasing tear,

Oh, gently on thy fuppliant's head,
Dread goddefs, lay thy chaftening hand!
Not in thy gorgon terrors clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful band
(As by the impious thou art feen)

With thundering voice, and threatening mein,
With fcreaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghaftly Poverty.

Thy form benign, oh Goddess wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philofophic train be there
To foften, not to wound my heart.
The generous fpark extinct revive.
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to fcan,

What others are, to feel, and know myself a man.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

HE Curfew tolls* the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind flowly oe'r the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds,

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain j
Of fuch as, wandering near her fecret bower,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,

By vain profperity receiv'd,

The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouze them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield.

liev'd.

Wisdom, in fable garb array'd,

Immers'd in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, filent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,

How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy (troke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful smile,
The short and fimple annals of the
poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
Await alike th' innevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, Ampute to thefe the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raife,
Where through the long drawn aifle and fretted
vault,

The peeling anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated bust

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flattery foothe 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 (way'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the fpoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unfeen,
And wafte its sweetness on the defert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applaufe of liftening fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad; nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame,

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to ftray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noifelefs tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n thefe bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial till erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and fhapeless fculpture
deck'd,

Saplores the paffing tribute of a figh.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit fhall enquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may fay,
"Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn
«To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
"Brushing with hafty steps the dews away'

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantaftic roots fo high, "His liftlef's length at noontide would he ftretch, "And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now failing as in fcorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, "Now drooping woeful wan, like one forlorn, "Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I mifs'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his favourite tree; "Another came; nor yet befide the rill "Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he

"The next with dirges due in fad array [borne." "Slow through the church-way path we faw him "Approach and sead (for thou canst read) the lay "Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."