By the young Trojan to his gilded bark
With fond reluctance, yielding modesty,
And oft reverted eye, as if she knew not
Whether she fear'd, or wish'd to be pursued.

Now the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek, and whisper soft,
She woos the tardy spring;
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance,

The birds his presence greet:
But chief the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstacy,

And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow,
No yesterday, nor morrow know;
'Tis man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune's brow

Soft Reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;

While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lower
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:

The hues of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastised by sabler tints of wo;
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,

And breathe, and walk again:
The meanest flowret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are sweetest Paradise.

Humble Quiet builds her cell

Near the course where Pleasure flows;
She eyes the clear crystalline well,
And tastes it as it goes.

AN IMITATION FROM THE GODODIN.*

Have ye seen the tusky boar,
Or the bull with sullen roar,
On surrounding foes advance ?
So Caradoc bore his lance.
Conan's name, my lay rehearse,
Build to him the lofty verse,

*See "The Death of Hoel." p. 497

Sacred tribute of the bard,
Verse, the hero's sole reward!
As the flame's devouring force,
As the whirlwind in its course,
As the thunder's fiery stroke
Glancing on the shiver'd oak,
Did the sword of Conan mow
The crimson harvest of the foe.

TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE FROM STATIUS.*

Third in the labours of the Disc came on,

With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon;

Artful and strong, he poised the well-known weight,
By Phlegyas warn'd, and fired by Mnestheus' fate,
That to avoid, and this to emulate.

sinew strung;

His vigorous arm he tried before he flung,
Braced all his nerves, and every
Then, with a tempest's whirl, and wary eye,
Pursued his cast, and hurl'd the orb on high.
The orb on high, tenacious of its course,
True to the mighty arm that gave it force,
Far overleaps all bound, and joys to see
Its ancient lord secure of victory.

The theatre's green height and woody wall
Tremble ere it precipitates its fall;

The ponderous mass sinks in the cleaving ground,
While vales, and woods, and echoing hills rebound:
As when from Etna's smoking summit broke,
The eyeless Cyclops heaved the craggy rock,
Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar,
And parting surges round the vessel roar :

This was made by Mr Gray while at Cambridge, in the year 1736, and at the age of twenty. Mr Mason expressed his belief that it was Gray's first attempt in English verse.

"Twas there he aim'd the meditated harm,
And scarce Ulysses 'scaped his giant arm.
A tiger's pride the victor bore away,
With native sports and artful labour gay:
A shining border round the margin roll'd,
And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold.

HYMN TO IGNORANCE.*

A FRAGMENT.

Hail, horrors, hail! ye ever gloomy bowers,
Ye gothic fanes, and antiquated towers,
Where rushy Camus' slowly-winding flood
Perpetual draws his humid train of mud.
Glad I revisit thy neglected reign,

Oh, take me to thy peaceful shade again!

But chiefly thee, whose influence breathed from high, Augments the native darkness of the sky; Ah, Ignorance! soft salutary Power ! Prostrate with filial reverence I adore. Thrice hath Hyperion roll'd his annual race, Since weeping I forsook thy fond embrace. Oh say, successful dost thou still oppose Thy leaden ægis 'gainst our ancient foes? Still stretch, tenacious of thy right divine, The massy sceptre o'er thy slumbering line? And dews Lethean through the land dispense, To steep in slumbers each benighted sense? If any spark of wit's delusive ray Break out, and flash a momentary day, With damp, cold touch forbid it to aspire, And huddle up in fogs the dangerous fire.

Oh say she hears me not, but, careless grown,

Lethargic nods upon her ebon throne.

*This is supposed to have been written about the year 1742, the time when Mr Gray returned to Cambridge.

Goddess! awake, arise, alas my fears!
Can powers immortal feel the force of years?
Not thus of old, with ensigns wide unfurl'd,
She rode triumphant o'er the vanquish'd world;
Fierce nations own'd her unresisted might,
And all was Ignorance, and all was Night.
Oh! sacred ages! times for ever lost!
(The Schoolman's glory, and the Churchman's boast),
For ever gone-yet still to Fancy new,
Her rapid wings the transient scene pursue,
And bring the buried ages back to view.
High on her car, behold the Grandam ride
Like old Sesostris with barbaric pride;

In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine,
And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire;
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,

A different object do these eyes require:
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast th' imperfect joys expire.
Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasures bring to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear:

To warm their little loves the birds complain.
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

* Only son of the Right Hon. Richard West, Lord Chancellor of Ireland. He died June 1, 1742, in the 26th year of his age.