POEMS OF THOMAS GRAY. ODE.ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, The untaught harmony of Spring: Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch Still is the toiling hand of Care: Yet hark, how through the peopled air And float amid the liquid noon 2: To Contemplation's sober eye In Fortune's varying colours drest: Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply; Thy joys no glittering female meets, No painted plumage to display: ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, The azure flowers that blow; Gaz'd on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, She saw; and purr'd applause. 4 While insects from the threshold preach, &c. M. Green, in the Grotto. Dodsley's Miscellanies, vol. v. p. 161. L 146 Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace, The captive linnet which enthrall ? While some on earnest business bent 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, The sunshine of the breast: And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, And black Misfortune's baleful train, These shall the fury passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart, Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 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 defil'd, And moody Madness 3 laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo, in the vale of years beneath More hideous than their queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, To each his sufferings: all are men, The unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate! And happiness too swiftly flies. HYMN TO ADVERSITY, Τὸν φρονεῖν βροτὰς ὁδι - Eschylus, in Agamemnone. DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, With pangs unfelt before, unpitied, and alone. When first thy sire to send on Earth And from her own she learn'd to melt at others woe. Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, Immers'd in rapturous thought profound, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy gorgon terrour's clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE Curfew tolls' the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the Moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad; por circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. `Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, THE PROGRESS OF POESY. I. AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake1, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. A thousand rills their mazy progress take; Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Oh! sovereign of the willing soul 2, And frantic passions, hear thy soft control: And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command: Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king The terrour of his beak, and lightning of his eye. Thee the voice, the dance, obéy 4, The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, With antic sports and blue-ey'd pleasures, Slow melting strains their queen's approach declare: 'Awake, my glory: awake, lute and harp. David's Psalms. Pindar styles his own poetry with its musical accompaniments, Αἰολης μολπή, Αἰόλιδες χορδαὶ, Αἰολίδων πνοαὶ Folian song, Eolian strings, the breath of the Eolian flute. The subject and simile, as usual with Pindar, are united. The various sources of poetry, which gives life and lustre to all its touches, are here described; its quiet majestic progress enriching every subject (otherwise dry and barren) with a pomp of diction and luxuriant harmony of numbers; and its more rapid and irresistible course, when swoln and hurried away by the conflict of tumultuous passions. 1 Power of harmony to calm the turbulent sallies of the soul. The thoughts are borrowed from the first Pythian of Pindar. This is a faint imitation of some incomparable lines in the same ode. O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move II. Man's feeble race what ills await 7, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? . Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, [war. 9 In climes beyond the solar 10 road, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy flame. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep", 6 Λάμπει δ' ἐπὶ πορφυρίησι. Phrynichus, apud Athenæum. 7 To compensate the real and imaginary ills of 8 Or seen the morning's well-appointed star Cowley. Tutta lontana dal camin dei sole. Virgil. Petrarch. Canzon 2. 11 Progress of poetry from Greece to Italy, and from Italy to England. Chaucer was not unacThe earl of Surrey, and sir Thomas Wyatt, had quainted with the writings of Dante, or of Petrarch. travelled in Italy, and had formed their taste there;" + Power of harmony to produce all the graces of Spenser imitated the Italian writers; Milton immotion in the body. 5 Μαρμαρυγὰς θηεῖτο ποδων· θαύμαζε δὲ θυμῷ. Homer, Od. →. proved on them: but this school expired soon after the Restoration, and a new one arose on the French model, which has subsisted ever since. |