No wailing ghosts shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble 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.

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.

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THOMAS GRAY

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON

COLLEGE

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat❜ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way.

Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade,

Ah fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green

The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed

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And unknown regions dare descry;

Still as they run they look behind,

They have a voice in every mind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever-new,

And lively cheer of vigour born;

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The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

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

No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see how all around 'em wait
The Ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murtherous band!
Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;

Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high,

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grimming Infamy,

The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defiled,

And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

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Lo! in the vale of tears beneath

A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen.

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

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Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,

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And happiness too swiftly flies. Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise.