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As is without a verdant shade a fountain,
DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.
Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College.
YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Her Henry's holy shade;
His silver-winding way.
Ah, fields beloved in vain,
A stranger yet to pain !
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
To breathe a second spring.
Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
The paths of pleasure trace,
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
What idle progeny succeed
Or urge the flying ball ?
While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:
The limits of their little reign,
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,
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!
Nor care beyond to-day:
The ministers of human fate,
Ah, shew them where in ambush stand
Ah, tell them they are men!
These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
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,
More hideous than their Queen :
That every labouring sinew strains,
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
And slow-consuming Age.
Condemned alike to groan ;
Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Since sorrow never comes too late,
Thought would destroy their paradise : No more; where ignorance is bliss,
'T is folly to be wise.
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
And rifle all the breathing spring.
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
And melting virgins own their love.
No goblins lead their nightly crew ;
And dress thy grave with pearly dew;
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
For thee the tear be duly shed ;
And mourned, till pity's self be dead.