Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, And bid it round Heaven's altars shed To glitter on the diadem. "Lo, Granta waits to lead her blooming band, No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings; With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow The laureat wreath, that Cecil * wore, And to thy just, thy gentle hand she brings, While spirits blest above and men below Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay. * Lord-treasurer Burleigh was chancellor of the University in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 'T was on a lofty vase's side, The azure flowers that blow; Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide The hapless nymph with wonder saw : With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize; Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd; From hence, ye beauties, undeceiv'd, Not all, that tempts your wandering eyes, ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. "Ανθρωπος· ἱκανὴ πρόφασις εἰς τὸ δυσυχεῖν. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watʼry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; Menander. * King Henry the Sixth, founder of the college. And ye, that from the stately brow Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, His silver-winding way. Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, 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, Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave The captive linnet which enthral ? To chase the rolling circle's speed, urge the flying ball? Or While some on earnest business bent Their murmuring 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 : Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, And lively cheer of vigour born; Alas, regardless of their doom, 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, And Shame that skulks behind; |