Or thither, where, beneath the showery west, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid; Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade :

Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour, The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,

And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

X.

But, O! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,
Fair nature's daughter, virtue, yet abides.

Go, just, as they, their blameless manners trace!
Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,
Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,
And all their prospect but the wintry main.

With sparing temperance, at the needful time,
They drain the sainted spring; or, hunger-prest,
Along the Atlantic rock undreading climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest.

Thus blest in primal innocence, they live,
Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare

Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI.

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest;

For not alone they touch the village breast,

But filled in elder time the historic page.

There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned, [Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen 2,]

In musing hour, his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors drest the magic scene. 2 Inserted from the later editions.

1 Iona.

From them he sung, when 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot afflicted and aghast,

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse ;

To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse.

XII.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to nature true,
And call forth fresh delight to fancy's view,
The heroic muse employed her Tasso's art !
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured;
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword!
How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung;
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows;
[Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here1!]

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows;

Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear,

And fills the impassioned heart, and wins the harmonious car!

XIII.

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail!

Ye [spacious] friths and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Annan filled or pastoral Tay,

Or Don's romantic springs, at distance hail!
The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread
Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom;
Or, o'er your stretching heaths, by fancy led;
[Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom'!]
1 Inserted from the later editions.

Then will I dress once more the faded bower,
Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [classic 1] shade;
Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each [lyric flower',]
And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, [where Willy's laid1!]
Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend !—
Where'er he dwell, on hill, or lowly moor,

To him I lose, your kind protection lend,

And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assembled here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

1 Inserted from the later editions.

When howling winds and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore ;

For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more,

And mourned till pity's self be dead.

THOMAS GRAY.

[THOMAS GRAY was born in London on the 26th of December 1716. His father is described as a citizen and money-scrivener'; we should say nowadays, he was on the stock-exchange. He appears to have been a selfish, extravagant, and violent man. Mr. Antrobus, Gray's uncle on the mother's side, was one of the assistant masters at Eton, and at Eton, under his care, Gray was brought up. At Eton he formed a friendship with Horace Walpole, and with Richard West, whose father was Lord Chancellor of Ireland. At Cambridge Gray did not read mathematics and took no degree. He occupied himself with classical literature, history and modern languages; several of his translations and Latin poems date from this time. He intended to read law; but a few months after his leaving Cambridge, Horace Walpole invited him to be his companion on a tour through France and Italy. The friends visited Paris, Florence and Rome, and remained abroad together more than two years. Gray saw and noted much; on this journey were produced the best of his Latin poems. Walpole, however, the son of the Prime Minister, and rich, gave himself airs; a difference arose which made Gray separate from him and return alone to England. He was reconciled with Walpole a year or two later; but meanwhile his father died, in 1741; his mother went to live at Stoke, near Windsor; and Gray, with a narrow income of his own, gave up the law and settled himself in college at Cambridge. In 1742 he lost his friend West; the Ode to the Spring was written just before West's death, the Ode on the Prospect of Eton, the Hymn to Adversity, and the Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, were written not long after. The first of Gray's poems which appeared in print was the Ode on the Prospect of Eton, published in folio by Dodsley in 1747; little notice,' says Warton, 'was taken of it.' The Elegy was handed about in manuscript before its publication in 1750; it was popular instantly, and made Gray's reputation. In 1753 Gray lost his mother, to whom he owed everything, and whom he devotedly loved. In 1755 The Progress of Poesy was finished, and The Bard begun. The post of Poet-Laureate was offered to Gray in 1757, and declined by him. He applied to Lord Bute, in