II.-3. Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Or where Mæander's amber waves Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast. III.-1. Far from the sun and summer gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child This pencil take,' she said, 'whose colours clear, Richly paint the vernal year: Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.' III.-2. Nor second He, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of the abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time : The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where Angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. III.-3. Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn, Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn: But ah! 'tis heard no more -- Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now! Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, * That the Theban eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: * Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his enemies to ravens, that croak and clamour in vain below, while it pursues its flight, regardless of their noise.'-Gray. The reference in the preceding verses is to the Ode to St. Cecilia's Day. Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way, Beneath the Good how far!—but far above the Great. PLEASURES OF VICISSITUDE Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing; Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground; Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet: But chief, the skylark warbles high And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Yesterday the sullen year Their raptures now that wildly flow 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 The common sun, the air, the skies, Humble Quiet builds her cell Near the source whence Pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes. While, far below, the madding crowd ELEGY Written in a Country Churchyard. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. * These exquisite verses, unfortunately, were left unfinished by the poet. The four concluding verses were added by his friend Mason. |