XXX.

But thou, O nurse and guide of youthful thought,
Wast thou all guiltless of thy son's decline

From wisdom's ways?-was no dark mischief wrought

In that wild heart through any fault of thine?
Didst thou so well perform thy task divine
To him and his compeers-so well instil
By precept upon precept, line on line,
Eternal truth, that Nature's inborn ill

Might not uncheck'd, unchang'd, its wayward course fulfil ?

XXXI.

Nay, Mother, veil thy face, and meekly own Thy much unfaithfulness in years gone by ;Thy altar cold-Heaven's light but faintly shownTruth, in thy charge, itself become a lie, Which, ev'n to boyhood's unsuspicious eye, At once lay bare and flagrant.--Well indeed Might faith and hope beneath thy nurture die, So rudely oft it crush'd the expanding seed, And quench'd the smoking flax, and broke the bruised reed.

XXXII.

Those days we trust are ended; and do thou
Take heed lest they return, and thy last state
Be worse than was thy first. With reverence

bow,

Before GOD's throne, and on His bidding wait :
So be thy sons for ever good and great,

The glory and the strength of this our isle;

And thou still fresh in Time's remotest date,

While Thames shall flow, and thy green meadows

smile,

And youthful sports, as now, the youthful heart be

guile.

GRAY'S POEMS.

ODE I.

ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky

Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade,

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink

With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclined in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the crowd

How low, how little are the proud,

How indigent the great!