Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' THE EPITAPH.* HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth Before the Epitaph, Mr. Gray originally inserted a very beautiful stanza, which was printed in some of the first editions, but afterwards omitted because he thought that it was too long a parenthesis in this place. The lines, however are, in themselves, exquisitely fine, and demand preservation. There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are showers of violets found; Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling* hope repose,} The bosom of his Father and his God. paventosa speme. Petrarch. Son. 114. POSTHUMOUS POEMS AND FRAGMENTS. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE." Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Rise, my soul, on wings of fire, Rise the rapturous choir among ; Hark! tis Nature strikes the lyre, And leads the general song : * Left unfinished by Mr. Gray; with additions, in brackets, by Mr. Mason. The first idea of this Ode was taken from M. Gresset's Epitre à ma Sœur.' [Warm let the lyric transport flow, Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Soft Reflection's hand can trace; Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, And blended form, with artful strife, See the Wretch, that long has tost And breathe, and walk again : ! The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, Humble Quiet builds her cell Near the source whence Pleasure flows; [While far below the maddening crowd Mark where Indolence, and Pride, Mark Ambition's march sublime Phantoms of Danger, Death, and Dread, Happier he, the Peasant, far, From the pangs of Passion free, That breathes the keen yet wholesome air Of rugged Penury. |