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Now, charm'd, I hear the bold Corneille in 906.-TO THE MEMORY OF THE FIRST spire

LADY LYTTELTON. Heroic thoughts, with Shakspeare's force and fire!

At length escaped from every human eye, Now sweet Racine, with milder influence, From every duty, every care, move

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a The soften'd heart to pity and to love.

share, With mingled pain and pleasure, I survey Or force my tears their flowing stream to The pompous works of arbitrary sway;

dry; Proud palaces, that drain’d the subjects' Beneath the gloom of this embowering store,

shade, Raised on the ruins of th' opprest and This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, poor,

I now may give my burden'd heart relief, Where e'en mute walls are taught to flatter And pour forth all my stores of grief; state,

Of grief surpassing every other woe, And painted triumphs style Ambition Far as the parest bliss, the happiest lore GREAT

Can on th' ennobled mind bestow, With more delight those pleasing shades I Exceeds the vulgar joys that move view,

Our gross desires, inelegant and low. Where Condé from an envious court with. drew;

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and Ye high o'ershadowing hills, pride,

Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green, (Sure judge how empty all, who all had

Oft have you my Lucy seen! tried !)

But never shall you now behold her more: Beneath his palms the weary chief reposed, Nor will she now with fond delight And life's great scene in quiet virtue closed. ! And taste refined your rural charms With shame that other fam'd retreat I explore. see,.

Closed are those beauteous eyes in endless Adorn'd by art, disgraced by luxury :

night, Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour, Those beauteous eyes where beaming used to In the wild riot of unbounded power ;

shine Where feverish debauch and impious love Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove.

divine. With these amusements is thy friend detain'a,

Oft would the Dryads of these woods Pleased and instructed in a foreign land;

rejoice Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind

To hear her heavenly voice; From present joys to dearer left behind.

For her despising, when she deign'd to O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat!

sing, At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat ; The sweetest songsters of the spring : At thought of thee, my heart impatient burns, The woodlark and the linnet pleased no And all my country on my soul returns.

more; When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous

The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute No power can ravish from th' industrious Was cast in silent scorn away, swain ?

While all attended to her sweeter lay. When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth Ye larks and linnets, now resume your That gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth ?

song, When, in the shade of laws, that long have

And thou, melodious Philomel, stood,

Again thy plaintive story tell ; Propt by their care, or strengthen'd by their For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue, blood,

Whose music could alone your warbling notes Of fairless independence wisely vain,

excel. The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain ?

In vain I look around Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging

O'er all the well-known ground, voice,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice ;

Where oft we used to walk, Bids me contemplate every state around,

Where oft in tender talk From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound; We saw the summer Sun go down the sky; Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see: Nor by yon fountain's side, And tells me, “These, like England, once Nor where its waters glide were free!”

Along the valley, can she now be found :

In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's amplo Lord Lyttelton.-Born 1709, Died 1773.



No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,
But the sad sacred earth where her dear

relics lie.

Whate'er your ancient sages taught,

Your ancient bards sublimely thought, And bade her raptured breast with all your

spirit glow ?


O shades of Hagley, where is now your Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain, boast ?

Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain, Your bright inhabitant is lost.

Nor in the Thespian valleys did you You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts

play; Where female vanity might wish to shine,

Nor then on Mincio's bank The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.

Beset with osiers dank, Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye : Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle To your sequester'd dales

stream, And flower-embroider'd vales

Nor where through hanging woods From an admiring world she chose to fly:

Steep Anio pours his floods, With Nature there retired, and Nature's Nor yet where Meles or lissus stray. God,

Il does it now beseem, The silent paths of wisdom trod,

That, of your guardian care bereft, And banish'd every passion from her breast, To dire disease and death your darling should But those, the gentlest and the best,

be left. Whose holy flames with energy divine The virtuous heart enliven and improve,

Now what avails it that in early bloom, The conjugal and the maternal love.

When light fantastic toys

Are all her sex's joys, Sweet babes, who, like the little playful With you she search'd the wit of Greece fawns,

and Rome; Were wont to trip along these verdant And all that in her latter days lawns

To emulate her ancient praise By your delighted mother's side,

Italia's happy genius could produce; Who now your infant steps shall guide ?

Or what the Gallic fire Ah! where is now the hand whose tender

Bright sparkling could inspire,

By all the Graces temper'd and refined ; To every virtue would have form’d your Or what in Britain's isle, youth,

Most favour'd with your smile, And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd of truth?

To full perfection have conspired to raise ? O loss beyond repair !

Ah! what is now the use O wretched father! left alone,

Of all these treasures that enrich'd her To weep their dire misfortune, and thy

mind, own!

To black Oblivion's gloom for over now How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd

consign'd. with woe, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name Perform the duties that you doubly owe !

'T is yours from death to save, Now she, alas! is gone,

And in the temple of immortal Fame From folly and from vice their helpless age With golden characters her worth engrave. to save?

Come then, ye virgin-sisters, come,

And strew with choicest flowers her Where were ye, Muses, when relentless

hallow'd tomb : Fate

But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, From these fond arms your fair disciple With accents sweet and sad,

Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's From these fond arms, that vainly strove

Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn; With hapless ineffectual love

O come, and to this fairer Laura pay To guard her bosom from the mortal | A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic blow?

Could not your favouring power,
Aonian maids,

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face Could not, alas ! your power prolong her Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar

grace! For whom so oft in these inspiring How eloquent in every look shades,

Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly Or ander Canaden's moss-clad mountains

spoke! hoar,

Tell how her manners, by the world refined, Tou open'd all your sacred store,

Left all the taint of modish vice behind,



And made each charm of polish'd courts But, in the midst of all its blooming agree

pride, With candid Truth's simplicity,

A sudden blast from Apenninus blows, And uncorrupted Innocence!

Cold with perpetual snows : Tell how to more than manly sense

The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, She join'd the softening influence

and dies. Of more than female tenderness : How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers, joy,

With never-fading myrtles twined, Which oft the care of others' good destroy, And fragrant with ambrosial flowers, Her kindly-melting heart,

Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd; To every want and every woe,

Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre, To guilt itself when in distress,

Tuned, by thy skilful hand, The balm of pity would impart,

To the soft notes of elegant desire, And all relief that bounty could bestow !

With which o'er many a land Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life Was spread the fame of thy disastrous Beneath the bloody knife,

love; Her gentle tears would fall,

To me resign the vocal shell, Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent

And teach my sorrows to relate to all.

Their melancholy tale so well,

As may ev'n things inanimate,
Not only good and kind,

Rough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to But strong and elevated was her mind :

pity move.
A spirit that with noble pride
Could look superior down

What were, alas! thy woes compared to
On Fortune's smile or frown;

mine ? That could without regret or pain .

To thee thy mistress in the blissful To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice

band Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize;

Of Hymen never gave her hand; That, injured or offended, never tried

The joys of wedded love were never Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,

thine : But by magnanimous disdain.

In thy domestic care
A wit that, temperately bright,

She never bore a share,
With inoffensive light

Nor with endearing art
All pleasing shone ; nor ever past

Would heal thy wounded heart The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober Of every secret grief that fester'd there : hand,

Nor did her fond affection on the bed And sweet Benevolence's mild command, Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid And bashful Modesty, before it cast.

head A prudence undeceiving, undeceived,

Whole nights on her unwearied arm That nor too little nor too much believed,

sustain, That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward

And charm away the sense of pain : fear,

Nor did she crown your mutual flame And without weakness knew to be sincere. ! With pledges dear, and with a father's tender Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days,

name. Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise, In life's and glory's freshest bloom,

O best of wives ! O dearer far to me Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to

Than when thy virgin charms the tomb.

Were yielded to my arms,

How can my soul endure the loss of So, where the silent streams of Liris glide,

thee? In the soft bosom of Campania's vale,

How in the world, to me a desert grown, When now the wintry tempests all are

Abandon'd and alone,

Without my sweet companion can I And genial Summer breathes her gentle

live ? gale,

Without thy lovely smile, The verdant orange lifts its beauteous The dear reward of every virtuous toil, head :

What pleasures now can pall’d Ambition From every branch the balmy flowerets

give ? rise,

Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd On every bough the golden fruits are

praise, seen;

Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts With odours sweet it fills the smiling

could raise. skies, The wood-nymphs tend, and th’ Idalian

For my distracted mind queen.

What succour can I find ?


On whom for consolation shall I call ?

Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, Support me, every friend ;

And seek those regions of serene delight, Your kind assistance lenci,

Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate To bear the weight of this oppressive No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall woe.

miss. Alas ! each friend of mine,

There death himself thy Lucy shall restore, My dear departed love, so much was There yield up all his power ne'er to divide thine,

you more. That none has any comfort to bestow.

Lord Lyttelton.-Born 1709, Died 1773.
My books, the best relief

In every other grief,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all :

Each favourite author we together read
My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of | 907.-ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT
Lucy dead.

OF ETON COLLEGE. We were the happiest pair of human Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, kind :

That crown the watery glade, The rolling year its varying course per Where grateful science still adores form’d,

Her Henry's holy shade;
And back return'd again ;

And ye, that from the stately brow
Another and another smiling came, Of Windsor's heights the expanse below
And saw our happiness unchanged remain: Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey;
Still in her golden chain

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers Harmonious Concord did our wishes


Wanders the hoary Thames along
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. His silver-winding way!

O fatal, fatal stroke,
That all this pleasing fabric Love had

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Of rare felicity,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd, On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy

A stranger yet to pain : gazed,

I feel the gales that from ye blow And every scheme of bliss our hearts had

A momentary bliss bestow, form'd,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, With soothing hope, for many a future

My weary soul they seem to soothe,

And, redolent of joy and youth,
In one sad moment broke !

To breathe a second spring.
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen stay;

Full many a sprightly race,
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,

Disporting on thy margent green,
Or against his supreme decree

The paths of pleasure trace,
With impious grief complain.

Who foremost now delight to cleave
That all thy full-blown joys at once

With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? should fade,

The captive linnet which inthral ? Was his most righteous will—and be that

What idle progeny succeed will obey'd.

To chase the rolling circle's speed, Would thy fond love his grace to her

Qr urge the flying ball ? control,

While some on earnest business bent
And in these low abodes of sin and pain

Their murmuring labours ply
Her pure exalted soul

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?

To sweeten liberty;
No-rather strive thy grovelling mind to Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,
Up to that unclouded blaze,

And unknown regions dare descry:
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,

Still as they run, they look behind ;
In which enthroned she now with pity

They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is every mortal bliss ;

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees

Less pleasing when possess'd; Beyond the bounds of this imperfect | The tear forgot as soon as shed, state,

The sunshine of the breast. Whose fleeting joys so soon inust end, Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, It does not to its sovereign good ascend. Wild wit, invention ever new,

Bound in thy adamantine chain,
The proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and

When first thy sire to send on earth

Virtue, his darling child, design'd, To thee he gave the heavenly birth,

And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse, thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore : What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at

others' woe. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe; By vain Prosperity received, To her they vow their truth, and are again


And lively cheer of vigour born;

The thoughtless day, the easy night,

The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the 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 'em wait
The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train.

Ah! show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey, the murth’rous 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' alter'd 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,

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

The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comos too late, And happiness too swiftly flies ?

Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

Gray.-Born 1716, Died 1771.

Wisdom, in sable garb array'd,

Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing

tear. Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice, and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. Thy form benign, oh goddess! woar,

Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic train be there,

To soften, not to woand, my heart. The generous spark extinct revive; Teach me to love and to forgive ; Exact my own defects to scan, What others are, to feel, and know myself a


Gray.-Born 1716, Died 1771.

908.—HYMN TO ADVERSITY. Daughter of Jove, relentless power,

Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour,

The bad affright, afflict the best!

909.-THE BARD. “Ruin seize thee, ruthless king,

Confusion on thy banners wait;
Thongh fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,

They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall ava:!

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