Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour 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: Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some shew their gayly-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man:

And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter thro' life's little day, In fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by age, theie airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy Joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone = We frolick, while 'tis May. ODE + ON THE DEATH OF A + FAVOURITE CAT. + Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dy'd The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclin'd, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr'd applause.

Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd) The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry watry God, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel ^Tom, nor ^Susan heard: A Fav'rite has no friend.

From hence, ye Beauties, undeciv'd, Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all, that glisters, gold.

ODE + ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF + ETON COLLEGE. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her HENRY'S holy Shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of WINDSOR'S heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way. Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade, Ah fields belov'd in vain, Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to sooth, And redolent of joy and youth, To breath a second spring. Say, Father THAMES, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? While some on ernest business bent Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever-new, And lively chear of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' 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, shew 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 vulturs of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that sculks behind; Or pineing Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd 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 Falshood those shall try, And hard Unkindess' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo, in the vale of years beneath A griesly 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 suff'rings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate? Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies. Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

HYMN + TO + ADVERSITY. DAUGHTER of JOVE, relentless power, Thou Tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour, The Bad affright, afflict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple Tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. When first thy Sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling Child, design'd, To thee he gave the heav'nly Birth, And bad 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 flatt'ring Foe; By vain Prosperity received, To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom in sable garb array'd Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend: Warm Charity, the gen'ral Friend, With Justice to herself severe, And Pity, drooping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. Oh, gently on thy Suppliant's head, Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful Band

(As by the impious thou art seen) With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. Thy form benign, oh Goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic Train be there To soften, not to wound my heart. The gen'rous 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 man.

THE + PROGRESS of POESY. + A PINDARIC ODE. AWAKE, Eolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rowling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares, And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, Has curb'd the fury of his car, And drop'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the scept'red hand Of jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of love.

Man's feeble race what Ills await, Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my Song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her Spectres wan,and Birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,

The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To chear the shiv'ring Native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundles forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage Youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky Loves. Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th'unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th'Egaean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Maeander's amber waves In lingering Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful Echos languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish?

Where each old poetic Mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To Him the mighty Mother did unveil Her aweful face: The dauntless Child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. 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 Horrour that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.

Nor second He, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living Throne, the saphire-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 cloath'd, and long-resounding pace. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er

Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts, that breath, and words, that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more= Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit Nor the pride nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air : Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far=but far above the Great.

THE + BARD. + A PINDARIC ODE. Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears! Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)

And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breath; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay." "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains,ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens fail; The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries= No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-eccho with affright The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing King!

She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. "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 Warriour 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 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. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long Years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed,

Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled Boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' 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 track,that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glitt'ring 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; And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a Form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;, Her Lyon-Port her awe-commanding face, 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; Theey breath a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings. 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 Horrour, 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 different doom our Fates assign. Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care, To triumph, and to die, are mine. He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

THE + FATAL SISTERS.+ AN ODE. ((PREFACE. In the Eleventh Century ^Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney- Islands, went with a fleet of ships and a considerable body of troops into Ireland, to the assistance of ^Sictryg ^with ^the ^silken ^beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law ^Brian, King of Dublin: the Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and ^Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of ^Brian, their King, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day, (the day of the battle,) a native of ^Caithness in Scotland saw at a distance a number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till looking through an opening in the rocks he saw twelve gigantic figures resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful song; which when they had finished,they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped Six to the North and as many to the South.)) Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken'd air. Glitt'ring lances are the loom, Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a Soldier's doom, ^Orkney's woe, and ^Randver's bane. See the griesly texture grow, (^Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below, Each a gasping Warriour's head. Shafts for shuttles,dipt in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a Monarch bore, Keep the tissue close and strong. ^Mista black, terrific Maid, ^Sangrida, and ^Hilda see, Join the wayward work to aid: 'Tis the woof of victory. Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly, where our Friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of fate we tread, Wading thro' th' ensanguin'd field: ^Gondula, and ^Geira, spread O'er the youthful King your shield. We the reins to slaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live. (Weave the crimson web of war.) They, whom once the desart-beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain. Low the dauntless Earl is laid, Gor'd with many a gaping wound: Fate demands a nobler head; Soon a King shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Eirin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of Immortality!

Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters, weave the web of death; Sisters,cease, the work is done, Hail the task, and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands; Triumph to the younger King. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, learn the tenour of our song. Scotland, thro' each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong. Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: Each her thundering faulchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed. Hurry, hurry to the field.

THE + DESCENT of ODIN. + AN ODE Uprose the King of Men with speed, And saddled strait his coal-black steed; Down the yawning steep he rode, That leads to HELA's drear abode Him the Dog of Darkness spied, His shaggy throat he open'd wide, While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd, Foam and human gore distill'd: Hoarse he bays with hideous din, Eyes that glow, and fangs, that grin; And long pursues, with fruitless yell, The Father of the powerful spell.

Onward still his way he takes, (The groaning earth beneath him shakes,) Till full before his fearless eyes The portals nine of hell arise. Right against the eastern gate, By the moss-grown pile he sate; Where long of yore to sleep was laid The dust of the prophetic Maid. Facing to the northern clime, Thrice he traced the runic rhyme; Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread, The thrilling verse that wakes the Dead; Till from out the hollow ground Slowly breath'd a sullen sound. What call unknown, what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of night? Long on these mould'ring bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain! Let me, let me sleep again. Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest?

A traveller, to thee unknown, Is he that calls, a warriour's son. Thou the deeds of light shalt know; Tell me what is done below, For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, Drest for whom yon golden bed. Mantling in the goblet see The pure bev'rage of the bee, O'er it hangs the shield of gold; 'Tis the drink of ^Balder bold: ^Balder's head to death is giv'n. Pain can reach the Sons of Heav'n! Unwilling I my lips unclose: Leave me, leave me to repose. Once again my call obey. Prophetess, arise, and say, What dangers ^Odin's child await, Who the Author of his fate. In ^Hoder's hand the Heroe's doom: His Brother sends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose.

Prophetess, my spell obey, Once again arise, and say, Who th' Avenger of his guilt, By whom shall ^Hoder's blood be spilt. In the caverns of the west, By ^Odin's fierce embrace comprest, A wond'rous Boy shall ^Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair, Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the sun's departing beam; Till he on ^Hoder's corse shall smile Flaming on the fun'ral pile. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me,leave me to repose. Yet a while my call obey. Prophetess, awake and say, What Virgins these,in speechless woe, That bend to earth their solemn brow, That their flaxen tresses tear, And snowy veils, that float in air. Tell me whence their sorrows rose: Then I leave thee to repose.

Ha! no Traveller art thou, King of Men, I know thee now, Mightiest of a mighty line= No boding Maid of skill divine Art thou, nor Prophetess of good; But Mother of the giant-brood. Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall Enquirer come To break my iron-sleep again; Till ^Lok has burst his tenfold chain. Never, till substantial Night Has reassum'd her ancient right; Till wrap'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd, Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE + TRIUMPHS of OWEN. + A FRAGMENT. Owen's praise demands my song, Owen swift, and Owen strong; Fairest flower of Roderic's stem, Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem He nor heaps his brooded stores, Nor on all profusely pours; Lord of every regal art, Liberal hand, and open heart. Big with hosts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came;

This the force of eirin hiding, Side by side as proudly riding, On her shadow long and gay Lochlin plows the watry way; There the Norman sails afar Catch the winds, and join the war: Black and huge along they sweep, Burthens of the angry deep. Dauntless on his native sands The Dragon-Son of Mona stands; In glitt'ring arms and glory drest, High he rears his ruby crest. There the thund'ring strokes begin, There the press, and there the din; Talymalfra's rocky shore Echoing to the battle's roar. Where his glowing eye-balls turn, Thousand Banners round him burn. Where he points his purple spear, Hasty, hasty Rout is there, Marking with Indignant eye Fear to stop, and shame to fly

There Confusion, Terror's child, Conflict fierce, and ruin wild, Agony, that pants for breath, Despair and honourable Death.

ELEGY + WRITTEN IN A + COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of such,as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 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 twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil Their homely joys,and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry,the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? 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 wak'd to extasy 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. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade thronewade through slaughter to athrone, 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.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd. Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 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, Mutt'ring 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 fav'rite 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 thro' the church-way path we saw him born. 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 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, Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('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.

A LONG STORY. In Britain's Isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of building stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ'd the power of Fairy hands To raise the cieling's fretted height, Each pannel in achievements cloathing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing. Full oft within the spatious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave Lord-Keeper led the Brawls; The Seal, and Maces, danc'd before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, His high-crown'd hat, and sattin-doublet, Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen, Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! Your Hist'ry whither are you spinning?. Can you do nothing but describe?. A House there is, (and that's enough) From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of Warriors, not in buff, But rustling in their silks and tissues. The first came cap-a-pee from France Her conqu'ring destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner Beauties eye askance, And vainly ape her art of killing, The other Amazon kind Heaven Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire: But COBHAM had the polish given, And tip'd her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air= Coarse panegyricks would but teaze her. Melissa is her Nom de Guerre. Alas, who would not wish to please her! With bonnet blue and capucine, And aprons long they hid their armour, And veil'd their weapons bright and keen In pity to the country-farmer. Fame in the shape of Mr. P--t (By this time all the Parish know it) Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd A wicked Imp they call a Poet, Who prowl'd the country far and near, Bewitch'd the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer, And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants. My Lady heard their joint petition, Swore by her coronet and ermine, She'd issue out her high commission To rid the manour of such vermin.

The Heroines undertook the task, Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rap'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter'd. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt, And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. Each hole and cupboard they explore, Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurry-skurry round the floor, And o'er the bed and tester clamber, Into the Drawers and China pry, Papers and Books, a huge Imbroglio! Under a tea-cup he might lie, Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio. On the first marching of the troops The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey'd him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumor says. (Who will, believe.) But that they left the door a-jarr, Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war. Short was his joy. He little knew, The power of Magick was no Fable. Out of the window, whisk, they flew, But left a spell upon the table. The words too eager to unriddle The Poet felt a strange disorder: Transparent birdlime form'd the middle, And chains invisible the border. So cunning was the Apparatus, The powerful pothooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house He went,as if the Devil drove him. Yet on his way (no sign of grace, For folks in fear are apt to pray) To Phoebus he prefer'd his case, And beg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The Godhead would have back'd his Quarrel, But with a blush on recollection Own'd, that his quiver and his laurel Gainst four such eyes were no protection. The court was sate, the Culprit there, Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping The Lady ^Janes and ^Joans repair, And from the gallery stand peeping: Such as in silence of the night Come (sweep) along some winding entry (^Styack has often seen the sight) Or at the chappel-door stand sentry; In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd, Sour visages, enough to scare ye, High Dames of honour once, that garnish'd The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary. The Peeress comes. The Audience stare, And doff their hats with due submission: She curtsies, as she takes her chair. To all the People of condition.

The Bard with many an artful fib, Had in imagination fenc'd him, Disproved the arguments of ^Squib, And all that ^Groom could urge against him. But soon his rhetoric forsook him, When he the solemn hall had seen; A sudden fit of ague shook him, He stood as mute as poor ^Macleane. Yet something he was heard to mutter, "How in the park beneath an old-tree (Without design to hurt the butter, Or any malice to the poultry,) He once or twice had pen'd a sonnet; Yet hoped, that he might save his bacon: Numbers would give their oaths upon it, He ne'er was for a conj'rer taken." The ghostly Prudes with hagged face Already had condemn'd the sinner. My Lady rose, and with a grace She smiled, and bid him come to dinner.

"Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget, "Why, what can the Vicountess mean? (Cried the square Hoods in woful fidget) "The times are alter'd quite and clean. "Decorum's turn'd to mere civility; Her air and all her manners shew it. "Commend me to her affability. "Speak to a Commoner and Poet." ((Here 500 Stanzas are lost.)) And so God save our noble King, And guard us from long-winded Lubbers, That to eternity would sing, And keep my Lady from her Rubbers.

THE CANDIDATE. WHEN sly Jemmy Twitcher had smugg'd up his face With a lick of court white-wash, and pious grimace, A wooing he went, where three Sisters of old In harmless society guttle and scold. Lord! Sister, says Physic to Law, I declare Such a sheep-biting look, such a pick-pocket air, Not I, for the Indies. you know I'm no prude; But his nose is a shame, and his eyes are so lewd! Then he shambles and straddles so oddly, I fear= No; at our time of life, 'twould be silly, my dear. I don't know, says Law, now methinks, for his look, 'Tis just like the picture in Rochester's book.

But his character, Phyzzy, his morals, his life; When she died I can't tell, but he once had a wife. They say he's no Christian, loves drinking and whoring, And all the town rings of his swearing and roaring, His lying, and filching, and Newgate-bird tricks: Not I,= for a coronet, chariot and six. Divinity heard, between waking and dozing, Her sisters denying, and Jemmy proposing; From dinner she rose with her bumper in hand, She stroked up her belly, and stroked down her hand. What a pother is here about wenching and roaring! Why David loved catches, and Solomon whoring. Did not Israel filch from the Egyptians of old Their jewels of silver, and jewels of gold? The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie: He drinks; so did Noah: he swears; so do I. To refuse him for such peccadillos, were odd; Besides, he repents, and talks about G--. Never hang down your head, you poor penitent elf! Come, buss me, I'll be Mrs. Twitcher myself. D--n ye both for a couple of Puritan bitches. He's Christian enough, that repents, and that ------

ODE FOR MUSIC. HENCE, avaunt, ('tis holy ground) Comus, and his midnight-crew, And Ignorance with looks profound, And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,

Mad Sedition's cry profane, Servitude that hugs her chain, Nor in these consecrated bowers Let painted Flatt'ry hide her serpent-train in flowers. Nor envy base, nor creeping Gain Dare the Muse's walk to stain, While bright-eyed Science watches round: Hence, away, 'tis holy Ground. From yonder realms of empyrean day Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay: There sit the sainted Sage, the Bard divine, The Few, whom Genius gave to shine Through every unborn age, and undiscovered clime. Rapt in celestial transport they, Yet hither oft a glance from high They send of tender sympathy To bless the place, where on their opening soul First the genuine ardor stole. 'Twas ^Milton struck the deep-toned shell, And, as the choral warblings round him swell, Meek ^Newton's self bends from his state sublime, And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

"Ye brown o'er-arching Groves, "That Contemplation loves, "where willowy ^Camus lingers with delight! Oft at the blush of dawn "I trod your level lawn, "Oft woo'd the gleam of ^Cynthia silver-bright In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, With Freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd Melancholy. But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth With solemn steps and slow High Potentates and Dames of royal birth And mitred Fathers in long order go: Great ^Edward with the lillies on his brow From haughty ^Gallia torn, And sad ^Chatillon, on her bridal morn That wept her bleeding Love, and princely ^Clare, And ^Anjou's Heroine, and the paler Rose, The rival of her crown, and of her woes, And either ^Henry there, The murther'd Saint, and the majestic Lord, That broke the bonds of ^Rome.

(Their tears, their little triumphs o'er, Their human passions now no more, Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb) All that on ^Granta's fruitful plain Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd, And bad these aweful fanes and turrets rise, To hail their ^Fitzroy's festal morning come; And thus they speak in soft accord The liquid language of the skies. <$S QUARTETTO> "What is Grandeur, what is Power? "Heavier toil, superior pain. "What the bright reward we gain? "The grateful mem'ry of the Good. "Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, "the bee's collected treasures sweet, "Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet "The still small voice of Gratitude. <$S $RECITATIVE> Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud The venerable ^Marg'ret see! "Welcome, my noble Son, (she cries aloud) "To this, thy kindred train, and me:

"Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace "A ^Tudor's fire, a ^Beaufort's grace. <$S $AIR> "Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, "The flower unheeded shall descry, "And bid it round heaven's altars shed "The fragrance of it's blushing head: "Shall raise from earth the latent gem "To glitter on the diadem. <$S $RECITATIVE> "Lo, ^Granta waits to lead her blooming band, "Not obvious, not obtrusive, She "No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings; "Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd "profane thy inborn royalty of mind: "She reveres herself and thee. "With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow "The laureate wreath, that ^Cecil wore, she brings, "and to thy just, thy gentle hand "submits the Fasces of her sway, "while Spirits blest above and Men below "Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.

<$S $GRAND $CHORUS> "Thro' the wild waves as they roar with watchful eye and dauntless mien "Thy steady course of honor keep, Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore: "The Star of ^Brunswick smiles serene, "And gilds the horrors of the deep.