HORACE WALPOLE.

1718-1797.

THE ENTAIL.

IN a fair summer's radiant morn
A Butterfly, divinely born,
Whose lineage dated from the mud
Of Noah's or Deucalion's flood,
Long hovering round a perfumed lawn,
By various gusts of odour drawn,
At last established his repose

On the rich bosom of a Rose.

The palace pleased the lordly guest;
What insect owned a prouder nest?
The dewy leaves luxurious shed
Their balmy odours o'er his head,
And with their silken tap'stry fold
His limbs enthroned on central gold,
He thinks the thorns embattled round
To guard his lovely castle's mound,
And all the bush's wide domain
Subservient to his fancied reign.

Such ample blessings swelled the Fly.
Yet in his mind's capacious eye,
He rolled the change of mortal things;
The common fate of Flies and Kings.
With grief he saw how lands and honours
Are apt to slide to various owners;

HORACE WALPOLE.

Where Mowbrays dwelt, now Grocers dwell,
And how Cits buy what Barons sell.
"Great Phoebus, Patriarch of my line,
Avert such shame from sons of thine!
To them confirm these roofs," he said;
And then he swore an oath so dread,
The stoutest Wasp that wears a sword,
Had trembled to have heard the word!
"If Law can rivet down Entails,

These manors ne'er shall pass to snails,

I swear" and then he smote his ermine"These towers were never built for vermin."

A Caterpillar grovelled near,

A subtle slow conveyancer,

Who, summoned, waddles with his quill

To draw the haughty Insect's will.
None but his heirs must own the spot,

Begotten, or to be begot;

Each leaf he binds, each bud he ties
To eggs of eggs of Butterflies.

When lo! how Fortune loves to tease
Those who would dictate her decrees!
A wanton boy was passing by;
The wanton child beheld the Fly,
And cager ran to seize the prey—
But, too impetuous in his play,
Crushed the proud tenant of an hour,
And swept away the Mansion-flower.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

1720-1759.

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs and dying gales;

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;
Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial love return;

For when thy folding star arising shows.
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brow with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That, from the mountain's side,

Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
The dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

IN yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is dressed, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Or tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!