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he groans

And mocks at death, and throws his foam around,
And in a storm of fury shakes the ground.
How doth his firm, his rising heart advance,
Full on the brandish'd sword and shaken lance;
While his fix'd eye-balls meet the dazzling shield,
Gaze and return the lightning of the field !
He sinks the sense of pain in generous pride,
Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side :
But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast
Till death : and when he

groans,

his last. CXXIII. ELIJAH FENTON.

1. ODE IN SPRING.
O'er winter's long inclement sway

At length the lusty spring prevails :
And swift to meet the smiling May,

Is wafted by the western gales.
Around him dance the rosy hours,
And, damasking the ground with flowers,

With ambient sweets perfume the morn;
With shadowy verdure flourished high,
A sudden youth the groves enjoy,

Where Philome! laments forlorn.
By her awaked, the woodland choir

To hail the coming god prepares :
And tempts me to resume the lyre,

Soft warbling to the vernal airs.
Yet once more, oh ye Muses, deign
For me the meanest of your train,

Unblamed to approach your blest retreat:
Where Horace wantons at your spring,
And Pindar sweeps a bolder string,
Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat.

2. VARIETY OF NATURE.
Nature permits her various gifts to fall
On various climes, nor smiles alike on all :
The Latian vales eternal verdure wear,
And flowers spontaneous crown the smiling year;
But who manures a wild Norwegian hill

To raise the jasmine or the coy jonquil ?
Who finds the peach among the savage sloes,
Or in black Scythia seeks the blushing rose ?
Here golden grain waves o’er the teeming fields
And there the vine her racy purple yields;
Rich on the cliff the British oak ascends,
Proud to survey the seas her power defends ;
Her sovereign title to the flag she proves,
Scornful of softer India's spicy groves.

CXXIV. AARON HILL.

1. DISTRUST.
Distrust is poor: and a misplaced suspicion
Invites and justifies the falsehood feared.

2. LOVE.
Monarchs, by forms of pompous misery pressed,
In proud, unsocial misery, unblessed,
Would but for love's soft influence curse their throne
And, among crowded millions, live alone.

CXXV. TICKELL.

1. ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON. Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave ! How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansion of the dead; Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ; The pealing organ and the pausing choir ! The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, And the last words that dust to dust conveyed !

While, speechless, o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept those tears, thou dear departed friend. Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu, And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; Mine, with true sighs, thy absence to bemoan, And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.

If e'er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart:
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue:
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment unchastised by thee.

Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,
Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race ;
Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eye-ball glance the sudden tears ?
How sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair
Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air !
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze !
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ;
No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-tide shade.

From other ills, however fortune frowned,
Some refuge in the Muse's art I found;
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing :
And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn,
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.

2. LUCY AND COLIN.
Of Leinster fam’d for maidens fair,

Bright Lucy was the grace :
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream

Reflect so fair a face.
Till luckless love and pining care

Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lip and damask cheeks,

And eyes of glossy blue.
Oh! have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend ?
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,

Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy fair :
Of vengeance due to broken vows,

Ye perjur'd swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of night,

A bell was heard to ring:
And at her window, shrieking thrice,

The raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew

That solemn boding sound;
And thus in dying words, bespoke

The virgins weeping round:
“I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which

says,

I must not stay :
I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.
By a false heart and broken vows,

In early youth I die.
Am I to blame, because his bride

Is thrice as rich as I ?
Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows;

Vows due to me alone:
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,

Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow in the church to wed,

Impatient both prepare ;
But know, fond mnaid, and know, false man,

That Lucy will be there.
Then, bear my corse, ye comrades ! bear,

The bridegroom blithe to meet;
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet.” She spoke, she died: her corse was borne,

The bridegroom blithe to meet : He in his wedding-trim so gay,

She in her winding sheet. Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?

How were those nuptials kept?

The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead;

And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,

He shook, he groaned, he fell.
From the vain bride (ah! bride no more),

The varying crimson fled,
When stretched before his rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her beneath one sod,

For ever now remains.
Oft at their grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,

They deck the sacred green.
But swain, forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear :
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

CXXVI. GAY.
1. THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.
Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who in a civil way
Comply'd with ev'ry thing, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was, never to offend,
And ev'ry creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn,
'to taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,

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