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As is without a verdant shade a fountain,
Or wanting grass, a mead, a vale, a mountain;
Such is my state, bereft of my dear treasure,
To know whose only worth was all my pleasure.
Ne'er think of pleasure, heart-eyes, shun the sun,
Tears be your treasure, which the wandering moon
Shall see you shed by mountain, vale, and fountain.

DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.

Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th’ expanse

below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among,
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way.
Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,

Ah, fields beloved in vain,
Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain !
I feel the gales that from ye

blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen

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

Their murmuring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is their's — by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Their's buxom health of rosy hue,

GRAY.

313

Wild wit, invention ever-new,

And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,
And black misfortune's baleful train !

Ah, shew them where in ambush stand
To seize their prey the murderous band !

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid 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-visaged, 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' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.

Lo! in the vale of years beneath

A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their Queen :
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

That every labouring 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 each his sufferings : all are men,

Condemned alike to groan ;
The tender for another's pain,

Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?

Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.

Thought would destroy their paradise : No more; where ignorance is bliss,

'T is folly to be wise.

GRAY. COLLINS.

315

Dirge in Cymbeline.

SI'NG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear,

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew ;
The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew;
The red-breast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lovely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed ;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;

And mourned, till pity's self be dead.

COLLINS

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