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and the dogmatifm of learning, muft be finally decided, all claim to poetical honours. The Church-yard abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with fentiments to which every bofom returns an echo. The four stanzas beginning, Yet e'en thefe bones are to me original; I have never seen the notions in any other place; yet he that reads them here, perfuades himself that he has always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it had been vain to blame, and useless to praise him."





(By J. T)

Cham's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'd Majestic rises on th' astonish'd sight,


Where oft the Mufe has led the fav'rite fwain,
And warm'd his foul with heav'n's infpiring light; 4
Beneath the covert of the fylvan fhade,

Where deadly cypress, mix'd with mournful yew,
Far o'er the vale a gloomy ftillness spread,
Celestial Genius burst upon the view.

The bloom of youth, the majefty of years,
The foften'd afpect, innocent and kind,
The figh of forrow, and the streaming tears,
Refiftless all, their various pow'r combin'd.
In her fair hand a filver harp she bore,

Whose magic notes, foft warbling from the string,
Give tranquil joys the breaft ne'er knew before,
Or raise the foul on rapture's airy wing.




By grief impell'd, I heard her heave a figh,
While thus the rapid strain refounded thro' the sky:

Hafte, ye fifter powers of Song!

Haften from the shady grove,

Where the river rolls along

Sweetly to the voice of love;

Where, indulging mirthful pleafures,
Light you prefs the flow'ry green,
And from Flora's blooming treasures
Cull he wreath for Fancy's queen;




Where your gently-flowing numbers,
Floating on the fragrant breeze,
Sink the foul in pleafing flumbers

On the downy bed of ease.

For graver ftrains prepare the plaintive lyre,
That wakes the fofteft feelings of the foul;
Let lonely grief the melting verfe inspire,
Let deep'ning forrow's folemn accents roll.
Rack'd by the hand of rude Disease,
Behold our fav'rite poet lies!
While ev'ry object form'd to please
Far from his couch ungrateful flies.
The blissful Mufe, whofe fav'ring fmile
So lately warm'd his peaceful breast,
Diffufing heav'nly joys the while,

In transport's radiant garments dreft,





With darkfome grandeur, and enfeebled blaze, Sinks in the shades of night, and shuns his eager gaze.

The gaudy train who wait on Spring,

Ting'd with the pomp of vernal pride,

The youth, who mount on pleasure's wing, †
And idly fport on Thame's fide,

With cool regard their various arts employ,


Norroufe the drooping mind, nor give the paufe ofjoy.

Ha! what forms, with port fublime, ‡

Glide along in fullen mood,

Scorning all the threats of time,

High above misfortune's flood?

*Ode on Spring. ton College,


† Ode on the Prospect of E

Bard, an Ode.


They feize their harps, they strike the lyre,
With rapid hand, with freedom's fire;
Obedient Nature hears the lofty found,


And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heav'nly ftrains refound.

In pomp of ftate behold they wait,

With arms outstretch'd and aspects kind,

'To fnatch on high to yonder sky

The child of Fancy left behind;

Forgot the woes of Cambria's fatal day,


By rapture's blaze impell'd, they fwell the artlefs lay.
But ah! in vain they strive to footh

With gentle arts the tort'ring hours,
Adverfity, with rankling tooth


Her baleful gifts profufely pours.

Behold fhe comes! the fiend forlorn,
Array'd in Horror's fettled gloom;
She ftrews the brier and prickly thorn,
And triumphs in the infernal doom;
With frantic fury, and infatiate rage,




She gnawsthe throbbing breaft, and blafts the glowing

No more the foft Eolian flute +

Breathes thro' the heart the melting ftrain,

The pow'rs of Harmony are mute,

And leave the once-delightful plain;

With heavy wing I see them beat the air,


Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless Despair.

Yet ftay, O ftay! celeftial Pow'rs!

And with a hand of kind regard

*Ode to Adverfity.

The Progrefs of Poetry.

Difpel the boift'rous ftorm that lowrs

Deftructive on the fav'rite bard;

O watch with me his laft expiring breath,


And fnatch him from the arms of dark oblivious Death.

Hark! the Fatal Sister's * join,

And, with horror's mutt'ring founds,

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'Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of Pain,
With ruthless fury and corrofive force,
Racks ev'ry joint, and feizes ev'ry vein:
He finks, he groans, he fails, a lifeless corfe!

Thus fades the flow'r, nipp'd by the frozen gale,
Tho' once fo fweet, fo lovely to the eye;
Thus the tall oaks, when boift'rous ftorms affail,
Torn from the earth, a mighty ruin lie.

Ye facred Sifters of the plaintive verfe,
Now let the ftream of fond affection flow;
0 pay your tribute o'er the flow-drawn hearfe
With all the manly dignity of wo!

The Fatal Sifters, an Ode.





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