Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled ? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). Half of thy heart we consecrate (The web is wove. The work is done).' Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn; In yon bright tract, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh what solemn scenes, on Snowdon's height Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight; Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue hail! Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear! They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her manycoloured wings. The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. And distant warblings lessen on my ear, Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our Fates assign. Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height, Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. Gray.-Born 1716, Died 1771. 910. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed 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 churchway path we saw him borne ; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 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. Gray.-Born 1716, Died 1771. 911.-ODE ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade; Beside some water's rushy brink (At ease reclined in rustic state) Still is the toiling hand of Care: The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how through the peopled air And float amid the liquid noon : To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly, In Fortune's varying colours drest: Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply; "Poor moralist! and what art thou? Till April starts and calls around New-born flocks, in rustic dance, Yesterday the sullen year Smiles on past misfortune's brow, While hope prolongs our happier hour; Still, where rosy pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow, See the wretch, that long has tost Humble Quiet builds her cell Near the course where pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes. Gray.-Born 1716, Died 1771. 912.-ON VICISSITUDE. Now the golden morn aloft 913.-AN ODE FROM CARACTACUS. Mona on Snowdon calls: Hear, thou king of mountains, hear; Hark, she speaks from all her strings: Hark, her loudest echo rings; King of mountains, bend thine ear: Send thy spirits, send them soon, See their gold and ebon rod, And burst thy base with thunder's shock: Shall Mona use, than those that dwell Snowdon has heard the strain: Busy murmurs hum around, Rustling vestments brush the ground; Mason.-Born 1725, Died 1797. Else vainly soft, loved Philomel! would flow The soothing sadness of thy warbled woe: Else vainly sweet yon woodbine shade While every flower in Fancy's clime, Cull'd by the hand of the industrious Muse, Hail, Mem'ry! hail. Behold, I lead She comes, and lo, thy realms expand! Full in the midst, and o'er thy num'rous train Displays the awful wonders of her reign. Or, if bleak Winter, frowning round, Through silver clouds and azure skies; See, sportive zephyrs fan the crisped streams; Through shadowy brakes light glance the sparkling beams: While, near the secret moss-grown cave, That stands beside the crystal wave, Sweet Echo, rising from her rocky bed, Mimics the feather'd chorus o'er her head. Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say, 66 wrongs: When "fall'n on evil days and evil tongues ;' diffuse? What friends were thine, save Mem'ry and the Muse? Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth Caught from the stores of ancient truth: Hence all thy classic wand'rings could explore, When rapture led thee to the Latian shore ; Each scene, that Tiber's banks supplied; Each grace, that played on Arno's side; The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly: The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky; Were still thine own; thy ample mind Each charm received, retain'd, combined. And thence "the nightly visitant," that came To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame, Recall'd the long-lost beams of grace, That whilom shot from Nature's face, When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast Spread with his own right hand Perfection's gorgeous vest. Mason.-Born 1725, Died 1797. |