66 II. 2. 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 noon-tide 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 Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 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 heav'n her manycolor'd wings. III. 3. "The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Rais'd 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 diff'rent 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. ODE ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Her lion-port, her awe-commanding Responsive to the cuckoo's note, face, The untaught harmony of spring: A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose: And float amid the liquid noon: Some show their gaily-gilded trim To Contemplation's sober eye In Fortune's varying colors drest: Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance Or chilled by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear, in accents low, Thy joys no glittering female meets, No painted plumage to display: -- OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774. [BORN at Pallas, county of Longford, Ireland, on the 10th of November, 1728; died in his chambers in Brick Court, London, on the 4th of April, 1774. The Traveller was published in December, 1764; The Deserted Village, May, 1770. The ballad The Hermit first appeared in The Vicar of Wakefield, 1776. The Haunch of Venison, written about 1771, was first published after its author's death, 1776; Retaliation, Goldsmith's last work, was also of posthumous publication, 1774.] While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, And sleights of art and feats of strength Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labor spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, And half a tillage stints thy smiling Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries. repose: These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. RECOLLECTIONS OF HOME AND INFANCY. SWEET Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care that never must be mine, How blest is he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong tempta tions try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; Swells at my breast, and turns the past And, all his prospects bright'ning to the |