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But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre,

Imperious Death I from thy fell grasp to save; He knew, and told it with a Poet's fire,

• The paths of glory lead but to the grave.' And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing mind

Mourn'd o'er the simple rustic's turfy cell,
To strew his tomb no grateful mourner find,

No village swain to ring one parting knell?
Yes, honour'd shade! the fringed brook I'll trace,

Green rushes culling thy dank grave to strew; With mountain flow'rs I'll deck the hallow'd place,

And fence it round with osiers mix'd with yew.



By Mr. Taite.

On Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'd fane

Majestic rises on the astonish'd sight,
Where oft the Muse has led the favourite swain,

And warm'd his soul with Heaven's inspiring light. Beneath the covert of the sylvan shade,

Where deadly cypress, mix'd with mournful yew, Far o'er the vale a gloomy stillness spread,

Celestial Genius burst upon the view. The bloom of youth, the majesty of years,

The soften'd aspect, innocent and kind, The sigh of sorrow, and the streaming tears,

Resistless all, their various pow'r combined. In her fair hand a silver harp she bore,

Whose magic notes, soft-warbling from the string, Give tranquil joy the breast ne'er knew before,

Or raise the soul on rapture's airy wing. By grief impell’d, I heard her heave a sigh, While thus the rapid strain resounded through the sky;


Haste, ye sister powers of song,

Hasten from the shady grove,
Where the river rolls along,

Sweetly to the voice of love.
Where, indulging mirthful pleasures,

Light you press the flow'ry green.
And from Flora's blooming treasures

Cull the wreaths for Fancy's queen.
Where your gently-flowing numbers,

Floating on the fragrant breeze,
Sink the soul in pleasing slumbers

On the downy bed of ease.
For graver strains prepare the plaintive lyre,

That wakes the softest feelings of the soul;
Let lonely Grief the melting verse inspire,
Let deep’ning Sorrow's solemn accents roll.
Rack'd by the hand of rude Disease

Behold our fav rite Poet lies!
While every object form’d to please

Far from his couch ungrateful flies.
The blissful Muse, whose favouring srnile'

So lately warm'd his peaceful breast,
Diffusing heavenly joys the while,

In Transport's radiant garments drest,
With darksome grandeur and enfeebled blaze,
Sinks in the shades of night, and shuns his eager gaze.

The gaudy train, who wait on Spring, *

Tinged with the pomp of vernal pride,
The youths who mount on Pleasure's wing,t

And idly sport on Thames's side,
With cool regard their various arts employ,
Nor rouse the drooping mind, nor give the pause of joy.

Ha! what forms, with port sublime,

Glide along in sullen mood,
Scorning all the threats of time,
High above Misfortune's flood ?

on Spring
Ode on the Prospect of Eton College.
The Bard, an Ode.

They seize their harps, they strike the lyre
With rapid hand, with freedom's fire.
Obedient Nature hears the lofty sound, (sound.
And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains re-

In pomp of state, behold they wait,

With arms outstretch'd, and aspects kind,
To snatch on high to yonder sky,

The child of Fancy left behind :
Forgot the woes of Cambria's fatal day,
By rapture's blaze impell’d, they swell the artless lay.

But ah! in vain they strive to soothe,

With gentle arts, the tort'ring hours ;
Adversity,* with rankling tooth,

Her baleful gifts profusely pours.
Behold she comes, the fiend forlorn,

Array'd in Horror's settled gloom;
She strews the briar and prickly thorn,

And triumphs in th' infernal doom.
With frantic fury and insatiate rage ing page.
She gnaws the throbbing breast and blasts the glow-

No more the soft Æolian flutet

Breathes through the heart the melting strain ; The powers of Harmony are mute,

And leave the once-delightful plain ; With heavy wing, I see them beat the air, Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless Despair.

Yet stay, O! stay, celestial pow'rs,

And with a hand of kind regard
Dispel the boist'rous storm that lours

Destructive on the fav'rite bard;
O watch with me his last expiring breath, [death.
And snatch him from the arms of dark, oblivious

Hark! the Fatal Sisterst join,

And with Horror's mutt'ring sounds,
Weave the tissue of his line,

While the dreadful spell resounds.

* Hymn to Adversity.
+ The Progress of Poesy.
1 The Fatal Sisters, an Ode.

• Hail, ye midnight sisters, hail !

Drive the shuttle swift along;
Let your secret charms prevail

O'er the valiant and the strong.
«O'er the glory of the land,

O'er the innocent and gay,
O'er the Muse's tuneful band-

Weave the fun'ral web of Gray.'
'Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of pain,

With ruthless fury and corrosive force, Racks every joint, and seizes every vein:

He sinks, he groans, he falls a lifeless corse. Thus fades the flow'r nipp'd by the frozen gale,

Though once so sweet, so lovely to the eye: Thus the tall oaks, when boist'rous storms assail,

Torn from the earth, a mighty ruin lie.
Ye sacred sisters of the plaintive verse,

Now let the stream of fond affection flow;
O pay your tribute o'er the slow-drawn hearse,

With all the manly dignity of woe.
Oft when the curfew tolls its parting knell

With solemn pause yon Church-yard's gloom survey, While Sorrow's sighs and tears of Pity tell

How just the moral of the Poet's lay.*
O’er his green grave, in Contemplation's guise,

Oft let the pilgrim drop a silent tear:
Oft let the shepherd's tender accents rise,

Big with the sweets of each revolving year; Till prostrate Time adore his deathless name, Fix'd on the solid base of adamantine faine.

* Elegy in a Country Church-yard.





By Mr. Mason. No more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns;

To Britain let the nations homage pay ! She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains,

Á Pindar's rapture in the lyre of Gray.

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