Y

MENANDER.

E distant fpiras, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy fhade;

*

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windfor's heights th' expanfe below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whofe flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His filver-winding way.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleafing shade,

Ah, fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my carelefs childhood stray'd,

A ftranger yet to pain!

I feel

* King Henry the Sixth, Founder of the College.

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary blifs bestow,

As waving fresh their gladfome wing,'
My weary foul they feem to footh,"
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou haft feen
Full many a fprightly ráce
Difporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glaffy wave?
The captive linnet which enthrall ?
What idle progeny fucceed

To chace the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?

While fome on earnest business bent

Their murmuring labours ply

'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers difdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare defcry:

Still as they run they look behind,

They hear a voice in every wind,
And fnatch a fearful joy.

And bees their honey redolent of fpring.

Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. Syftem.

Gay

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,
Lefs pleafing, when possest;

The tear forgot as foon as shed,
The funfhine of the breast:

Theirs buxom health, of rofy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively chear of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No fenfe have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Yet fee how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train,

Ah, fhew them where in ambush stand
To feize their prey, the murtherous band!
Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury paffions tear,
The vulturs of the mind,

Difdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that fculks behind;

Or pining Love, fhall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the fecret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-vifag'd comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition

Ambition this fhall tempt to rife,

Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a facrifice,
And grinning Infamy,

The ftings of Falfehood thofe fhall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorfe, with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness * laughing wild
Amid fevereft woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath A griefly troop are feen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their Queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring finew strains,
Thofe in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the foul with icy hand,

And flow-confuming Age.

To each his fufferings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own.

* Madness laughing in his ireful mood.

Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite.

Yet

Yet ah! why should they know their fate!
Since Sorrow never comes too late,
And Happiness too fwiftly flies.
Thought would deftroy their paradife,
No more; where Ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

HYMN