who filled the chair of St. Peter in his time ;--one (in short) who could have been a Leonardo, a Michael Angelo, a Titian, a Corregio, a Parmegiano, an Annibal, a Rubens, or any other when he pleased, but none of them could ever have been a Raphael.

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.

This poem has been noticed in our preface, and in the introduction to the Long Story. It is full of thought, tenderness, and music, and should make the writer beloved by all persons of reflection, especially those who know what it is to visit the scenes of their schooldays. They may not all regard them in the same melancholy light; but the melancholy light will cross them, and then Gray's lines will fall in upon the recollection, at once like a bitter and a balm.

, ,
That crown the watery 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 beloved 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 soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe 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 earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labors 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 cheer, of vigor 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 them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black misfortune's baleful train ; Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band !

Ah, tell them they are men !

These shall the fury passions tear,

The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,

And shame that skulks behind ;
Or pining 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 falsehood those shall try,
And hard unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen remorse, with blood defild,
And moody madness laughing wild

Amidst severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of

years

beneatb A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of death,

More hideous than their queen ;
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every laboring sinew strains,

Those in tho deeper vitals rage :
Lo, poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow consuming age.
To each his sufferings ; all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan ;
The tender for another's pain,

The 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.