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For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If, chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ;

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. “There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. “Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

Muttring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now dropping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz’d with care, or crossd in hopeless love.

“ One mom I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree :
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Nor

up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

“ The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow thro' the churchyard path we saw him bome: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

Gravid on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head

upon

the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear;

He gain’d from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

COLLINS, 1720—1756. WHEN Music, heavenly maid ! was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell ; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound ; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords, bewildered laid ; And back recoiled, he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire
In lightnings owned his secret stings ;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled ;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air ;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, oh Hope ! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song ;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ;
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung, but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose ;
He threw his bloodstained sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ;

And ever and anon he beat

The double drum with furious heat ;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his

head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed ;

Sad proof of thy distressful state ;
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed,
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired,
And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul :

Whilst dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound ;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ;
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

Round a holy calm diffusing

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But oh ! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Fawn and Dryad known ;
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen
Peeping forth from alleys green ;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :

He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.

They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing ;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round :

And he, amidst the frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

YOUNG, 1681—1765.

THE bell strikes one. We take no note of time
But from its loss : to give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.

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It is the signal that demands dispatch :
How much is to be done? My hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down—on what? A fathomless abyss ;
A dread eternity ! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man !
How passing wonder He who made him such !
Who centr'd in our make such strange extremes
From different natures marvellously mix'd,
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ;
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain !
Midway from nothing to the Deity !
A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed !
Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine !
Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust !
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite !
A worm ! a god !-I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd, aghast,
And wondering at her own. How reason reels !
O what a miracle to man is man !
Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy ! what dread !
Alternately transported and alarm'd !
What can preserve my life ! or what destroy !
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

The Complaint.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR.

GOLDSMITH, 1728—1774. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

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