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COOKE's EDITION OF SELECT POETS.

[...]

GRAY.

[...]

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THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS GRAY.

WITH THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

Cooke's Edition.

Thy form benign, oh, Goddeſs! wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
To ſoften, not to wound my heart:
The gen'rous ſpark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive;
Exact my own defects to ſcan,
What others are to feel, and know myſelf a man.
Ode to Adverſity.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune,
He had not the method of making a fortune;
Could love and could hate, ſo was thought ſomewhat odd;
No very great wit; he believ'd in a God:
A poſt or a penſion he did not deſire.
But left church and ſtate to Charles Townſhend and Squire
Gray of Himſelf.

EMBELLISHED WITH SUPERB ENGRAVINGS.

London: Printed for C. COOKE, No. 17, Paternoſter-Row; And ſold by all the Bookſellers in Great Britain and Ireland.

[]

THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS GRAY. CONTAINING HIS ODES, MISCELLANIES, &c. &c. &c.

Hark! the Fatal Siſters join—
Hail, ye Midnight Siſters! hail—
O'er the glory of the land,
O'r the innocent and gay,
O'er the Muſes' tuneful band,
Weave the fun'ral web of Gray.
'Tis dune—'tis done—
He ſinks, he groans, he falls, a lifeleſs corſe—
O'er his green grave, in Contemplation's guiſe,
Oft' let the pilgrim drop a ſilent tear,
Oft' let the ſhepherd's tender accents riſe,
Big with the ſweets of each revolving year,
Till proſtrate Time adere his deathleſs name,
Fix'd on the ſolid baſe of adamantine fame.
J. T. to Mem. of Gray.

London: PRINTED AND EMBELLISHED Under the Direction of C. COOKE.

THE LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY.

[]

THOMAS GRAY was born in Cornhill, in the city of London, on the 26th of December, 1716. His father, Philip Gray, was a money-ſcrivener; but being of an indolent and profuſe diſpoſition, he rather diminiſhed than improved his paternal fortune. Our Author received his claſſical education at Eton ſchool, under Mr. Antrobus, his mother's brother, a man of ſound learning and refined taſte, who directed his nephew to thoſe purſuits which laid the foundation of his future literary fame.

During his continuance at Eton, he contracted a friendſhip with Mr. Horace Walpole, well known for his knowledge in the fine arts; and Mr. Richard Weſt, ſon of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, a youth of very promiſing talents.

When he left Eton ſchool in 1734, he went to Cambridge, and entered a penſioner at Peterhouſe, at the recommendation of his uncle Antrobus, who had been a fellow of that college. It is ſaid that, from his effeminacy and fair complexion, he acquired, among his fellow ſtudents, the appellation of Miſs Gray, to which the delicacy of his manners ſeems not a little to have contributed. Mr. Walpole was at that time a fellow-commoner of King's College, in the ſame Univerſity; a fortunate circumstance, which afforded Gray frequent opportunities of intercourſe with his Honourable Friend.

Mr. Weſt went from Eton to Chriſt Church. Oxford; and in this ſtate of ſeparation, theſe two votaries of the Muſes, whoſe diſpoſitions were congenial, commenced an epiſtolary correſpondence, part of which is publiſhed by Mr. Maſon, a gentleman whoſe character ſtands high in the republic of letters.

[vi] Gray, having imbibed a taſte for poetry, did not reliſh thoſe abſtruſe ſtudies which generally occupy the minds of ſtudents at College; and therefore, as he found very little gratification from academical purſuits, he left Cambridge in 1738, and returned to London, intending to apply himſelf to the ſtudy of the law: but this intention was ſoon laid aſide, upon an invitation given him by Mr. Walpole, to accompany him in his travels abroad; a ſituation highly preferable, in Gray's opinion, to the dry study of the law.

They ſet out together for France, and viſited most of the places worthy of notice in that country: from thence they proceeded to Italy, where an unfortunate diſpute taking place between them, a ſeparation enſued upon their arrival at Florence. Mr. Walpole afterwards, with great candour and liberality, took upon himſelf the blame of the quarrel; though, if we conſider the matter coolly and impartially, we may be induced to conclude that Gray, from a conſcious ſuperiority of ability, might have claimed a deference to his opinion and judgment, which his Honourable Friend was not at that time diſpoſed to admit: the rupture, however, was very unpleaſant to both parties.

Gray purſued his journey to Venice on an economic plan, ſuitable to the circumſcribed state of his finances; and having continued there ſome weeks, returned to England in September, 1741. He appears, from his letters, publiſhed by Mr. Maſon, to have paid the minuteſt attention to every object worthy of notice throughout the courſe of his travels. His deſcriptions are lively and pictureſque, and bear particular marks of his genius and diſpoſition. We admire the ſublimity of his ideas when he aſcends the ſtupendous heights of the Alps, and are charmed with his diſplay of nature, decked in all the beauties of vegetation. Indeed, abundant information, as well as entertainment, may be derived from his caſual letters.

[vii] In about two months after his arrival in England, he loſt his father, who, by an indiſcreet profuſion, had ſo impaired his fortune, as not to admit of his son's proſecuting the ſtudy of the law with that degree of reſpectability which the nature of the profeſſion requires, without becoming burthenſome to his mother and aunt. To obviate, therefore, their importunities on the ſubject, he went to Cambridge, and took his bachelor's degree in civil law.

But the inconveniencies and diſtreſs attached to a ſcanty fortune were not the only ills our Poet had to encounter at this time: he had not only loſt the friendſhip of Mr. Walpole abroad, but poor Weſt, the partner of his heart, fell a victim to complicated maladies, brought on by family misfortunes, on the 1ſt of June, 1742, at Popes, a village, in Hertfordſhire, where he went for the benefit of the air.

The exceſſive degree in which his mind was agitated for the loſs of his friend, will beſt appear from the following beautiful little sonnet:

" In vain to me the ſmiling mornings ſhine,
" And redd'ning Poebus lifts his go [...]den fire:
" The birds in [...]ain their am'rous deſcant join,
" Or cheerful fields reſume their green attire:
" Theſe ears, alaſ! for other notes repine;
" A different object do theſe eyes require;
" My lonely anguiſh melts no heart but mine,
" And in my breaſt th' imperfect joys expire;
" Yet morning ſmiles the buſy race to cheer,
" And new-born pleaſure brings to happier men;
" The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
" To warn their little loves the birds comp [...]ain:
" I fruitleſs mourn to him that cannot hear;
" And weep the more, becauſe I weep in vain.'

Mr. Gray now ſeems to have applied his mind very ſedulouſly to poetical compoſition: his Ode to Spring was written early in June, to his friend Mr. Weſt, before he received the melancholy news of his death: how our Poet's ſuſceptible mind was affected by that melancholy incident, is evidently demonſtrated by the lines quoted above; the impreſſion, indeed, appears [viii] to have been too deep to be ſoon effaced; and the tenour of the ſubjects which called for the exertions of his poetical talents ſubſequent to the production of this Ode, corroborates that obſervation; theſe were his Proſpect of Eton, and his Ode to Adverſity. It is alſo ſuppoſed, and with great probability, that he began his Elegy in a Country Church Yard about the ſame time. He paſſed ſome weeks at Stoke, near Windſor, where his mother and aunt reſided, and in that pleaſing retirement finiſhed ſeveral of his moſt celebrated Poems.

From thence he returned to Cambridge, which, from this period, was his chief reſidence during the remainder of his life. The conveniencies with which a college life was attended, to a perſon of his narrow fortune, and ſtudious turn of mind, were more than a compenſation for the diſlike which, for ſeveral reaſons, he bore to the place: but he was perfectly reconciled to his ſituation, on Mr. Maſon's being elected a fellow of Pembroke-Hall; a circumſtance which brought him a companion, who, during life, retained for him the highest degree of friendſhip and eſteem.

In 1742 he was admittted to the degree of Batchelor in the Civil Law, as appears from a letter written to his particular friend Dr. Wharton, of Old Park, near Durham, formerly fellow of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, in which he ridicules, with much point and humour, the [...]lies and foibles, and the dullneſs and formality, which prevailed in the Univerſity.

In order to enrich his mind with the ideas of others, he devoted a conſiderable portion of his time to the ſtudy of the beſt Greek authors; ſo that, in the courſe or ſix years, there were hardly any writers of eminence in that language whoſe works he had not only read, but thoroughly digeſted.

His attention, however, to the Greek claſſics, did not wholly engroſs his time; for he found leiſure [ix] to advert, in a new ſarcaſtical manner, to the ignorance and dullneſs with which he was ſurrounded, though ſituated in the centre of learning. There is only a fragment remaining of what he had written on this ſubject, from which it may be inferred, that it was intended as an Hymn to Ignorance. The fragment is wholly introductory; yet many of the lines are ſo pointed in ſignification, and harmonious in verſification, that they will be admitted, by the admirers of verſe, to diſplay his poetical talents with more brilliancy than appears in many of his lyric productions.

Hail, horrors, hail! ye ever gloomy bowers,
Ye Gothic fanes, and antiquated towers!
Where ruſhy Camus' ſlowly-winding flood
Perpetual draws his humid train of mud:
Glad I reviſit thy neglected reign:
Oh, take me to thy peaceful ſhade again:
But chiefly thee, whoſe influence, breath'd from high,
Augments the native darkneſs of the ſky.
Ah, Ignorance! ſoft, ſalutary power!
Proſtrate with filial reverence I adore.
Thrice hath Hyperion roll'd his annual race,
Since weeping I forſook thy fond embrace.
Oh, ſay, ſucceſsful doſt thou ſtill oppoſe,
Thy leaden Aegis 'gainſt our ancient foes?
Still ſtretch, tenacious of thy right divine,
The maſſy ſceptre o'er thy ſlumbering line?
And dews Lethean through the land diſpenſe,
To ſteep in ſlumbers each benighted ſenſe?
If any ſpark of wit's deluſive ray
Break out, and flaſh a momentary day,
With damp, cold touch forbid it to aſpire,
And huddle up in fogs the dangerous fire.
Oh, ſay—She hears me not, but, careleſs grown,
Lethargic nods upon her ebon throne.
Goddeſs! awake, ariſe; alas! my fears;
Can powers immortal feel the force of years?
Not thus of old, with enſigns wide unfurl'd,
She rode triumphant o'er the vanquiſh'd world:
Fierce nations own'd her unreſiſted might;
And all was ignorance, and all was night;
Oh ſacred age! Oh times for ever loſt!
(The ſchoolman's glory, and the churchman's boaſt,)
For ever gone—yet ſtill to fancy new,
Her rapid wings the tranſient ſcene purſue,
And bring the buried ages back to view.
High on her car, behold the grandam ride,
Like old Sefoſtris with barbaric pride;
***** a team of harneſs'd monarchs' bend
*****

[x] In 1744 he ſeems to have given up his attention to the Muſes. Mr. Walpole, deſirous of preſerving what he had already written, as well as perpetuating the merit of their deceaſed friend, Weſt, endeavoured to prevail with Gray, to whom he had previouſly become reconciled, to publiſh his own Poems, together with thoſe of Weſt; but Gray declined it, conceiving their productions united would not ſuffice to fill even a ſmall volume.

In 1747 Gray became acquainted with Mr. Maſon, then a ſcholar of St. John's College, and afterwards Fellow of Pembroke Hall. Mr. Maſon, who was a man of great learning and ingenuity, had written, the year before, his "Monody on the Death of Pope," and his "II Bellicoſo," and "Il Pacifico;" and Gray reviſed theſe pieces at the requeſt of a friend. This laid the foundation of a friendſhip that terminated but with life: and Mr. Maſon, after the death of Gray, teſtified his regard for him, by ſuperintending the publication of his works.

The ſame year he wrote a little Ode on the Death of a favourite Cat of Mr. Walpole's, in which humour and inſtruction are happily blended: but the following year he produced an effort of much more importance; the Fragment of an Eſſay on the Alliance of Education and Government. Its tendency was to demonſtrate the neceſſary concurrence of both to form great and uſeful Men. It opens with the two following ſimilies. The exordium is rather uncommon; but he ſeems to have adopted it as a kind of clue to the ſubject he meant to purſue in the ſubſequent part of the Poem.

As ſickly plants betray a niggard earth,
Whoſe barren boſom ſtarves her gen'rous birth,
Nor genial warmth nor genial juice retains,
Their roots to feed and fill their verdant veins;
And as in climes, where Winter holds his reign,
The ſoil, tho' fertile, will not teem in vain,
Forbids her gems to ſwell, her ſhades to riſe,
Nor truſts her bloſſoms to the charliſh ſkies;
So draw mankind in vain the vital airs,
Unform'd, unfriended, by thoſe kindly cares
[xi] That health and vigour to the ſoul impart,
Spread the young thought, and warm the op'ning heart;
so fond inſtruction on the growing pow'rs
Of Nature idly laviſhes her ſtores,
If equal Juſtice, with unclouded face,
Smile not indulgent on the riſing race,
And ſcatter with a free, tho' frugal hand,
Light golden ſhow'rs of plenty o'er the land:
But Tyranny has fix'd her empire there,
To check their tender hopes with chilling fear,
And blaſt the blooming promiſe of the year.
This ſpacious animated ſcene ſurvey,
From where the rolling orb, that gives the day,
His ſable ſons with nearer course ſurrounds
To either pole and life's remoteſt bounds;
How rude ſoe'er th' exterior form we find,
Howe'er opinion tinge the vary'd mind,
Alike to all the kind impartial Heav'n
The ſparks of truth and happineſs has given;
With ſenſe to feel, with mem'ry to retain,
They follow pleaſure and they fly from pain;
Their judgment mends the plan their fancy draws,
Th' event preſages and explores the cauſe:
The ſoft returns of gratitude they know,
By fraud elude, by force repel, the foe;
While mutual wiſhes mutual woes endear,
The ſocial ſmile and ſympathetic tear.
Say, then, thro' ages by what fate confin'd
To diff'rent climes ſeem diff'rent ſouls aſſign'd;
Here meaſur'd laws and philoſophic eaſe
Fix and improve the poliſh'd arts of peace;
There Induſtry and Gain their vigils keep,
Command the winds and tame th' unwilling deep:
Here force and hardy deeds of blood prevail,
There languid Pleasure sighs in ev'ry gale.
Oft' o'er the trembling nations from afar
Has Scythia breath'd the living cloud of war;
And where the deluge burſt with ſweepy ſway,
Their arms, their kings, their gods, were roll'd away:
As oft' have iſſu'd, hoſt impelling hoſt,
The blue-ey'd myriads from the Baltic coaſt;
The proſtrate South to the deſtroyer yields
Her boaſted titles and her golden fields:
With grim delight the brood of Winter view
A brighter day, and heav'ns of azure hue,
Scent the new fragrance of the breathing roſe,
And quaff the pendent vintage as it grows.
Proud of the yoke, and pliant to the rod,
Why yet does Aſia dread a monarch's nod,
While European freedom ſtill withſtands
Th' encreaching tide that drowns her leſs'ning lands,
And ſees far off, with an indignant groan,
Her native plains and empires once her own?
Can op'ner ſkies, and ſons of fiercer flame,
O'erpower the fire that animates our frame;
As lamps, that ſhed at eve a cheerful ray,
Fade and expire beneath the eye of day?
[xii] Need we the influence of the northern ſtar
To ſtring our nerves and ſteel our hearts to war?
And where the face of Nature laughs around,
Muſt ſick'ning Virtue fly the tainted ground?
Unmanly thought! what ſeaſons can controul,
What fancy'd zone can circumſcribe, the ſoul,
Who, conſcious of the ſource from whence ſhe ſprings,
By Reaſon's light, on Reſolution's wings,
Spite of her frail companion, dauntleſs goes
O'er Lybia's deſerts and thro' Zembla's ſnows?
She bids each ſlumb'ring energy awake,
Another touch another temper take,
Suſpends th' inferior laws that rule our clay;
The ſtubborn elements confeſs her ſway;
Their little wants their low deſires refine,
And raiſe the mortal to a height divine.
Not but the human fabric from the birth
Imbibes a flavour of its parent earth;
As various tracts enforce a various toil,
The manners ſpeak the idiom of their ſoil.
An iron race the mountain-cliffs maintain,
Foes to the gentler genius of the plain;
For where unweary'd ſinews muſt be found
With ſide-long plough to quell the flinty ground,
To turn the torrent's ſwift-deſcending flood,
To brave the ſavage ruſhing from the wood,
What wonder if, to patient valour train'd,
They guard with ſpirit what by ſtrength they gain'd?
And while their rocky ramparts round they ſee,
The rough abode of Want and Liberty,
(As lawleſs force from confidence will grow)
Inſult the plenty of the vales below?
What wonder in the ſultry climes, that ſpread
Where Nile, redundant o'er his ſummer-bed,
From his broad boſom life and verdure flings,
And broods o'er Aegypt, with his wat'ry wings,
If, with advent'rous oar and ready ſail,
The duſky people drive before the gale,
Or on frail floats to neighbouring cities ride,
That riſe and glitter o'er the ambient tide?

It is much to be lamented that our Author did not finiſh what was ſo ſucceſsfully begun, as the Fragment is deemed ſuperior to every thing in the ſame ſtyle of writing which our language can boaſt.

In 1750 he put his finiſhing ſtroke to his Elegy written in a Country Church-yard, which was communicated first to his friend Mr. Walpole, and by him to many perſons of rank and diſtinction. This beautiful production introduced the author to the favour of Lady Cobham, and gave occaſion to a ſingular compoſition, [xiii] called, A Long Story; in which various effuſions of wit and humour are very happily interſperſed.

The Elegy having found its way into the "Magazine of Magazines," the Author wrote to Mr. Walpole, requeſting he would put it into the hands of Mr. Dodſley, and order him to print it immediately, in order to reſcue it from the diſgrace it might have incurred by its appearance in a Magazine. The Elegy was the moſt popular of all our Author's productions; it ran through eleven editions, and was tranſlated into Latin by Anſtey and Roberts; and in the ſame year a verſion of it was publiſhed by Lloyd. Mr. Bentley, an eminent Artiſt of that time, wiſhing to decorate this elegant compoſition with every ornament of which it is so highly deſerving, drew for it a set of deſigns, as he alſo did for the reſt of Gray's productions, for which the artiſt was liberally repaid by the Author in ſome beautiful Stanzas, but unfortunately no perfect copy of them remains. The following, however, are given as a ſpecimen:

" In ſilent gaze the tuneful choir among,
" Half pleas'd, half bluſhing, let the muſe admire,
" While Bentley leads her ſiſter art along,
" And bids the pencil anſwer to the lyre.
" See, in their courſe, each tranſitory thought,
" Fix'd by his touch, a laſting eſſence take;
" Each dream, in fancy's airy colouring wrought,
" To local ſymmetry and life awake!
" The tardy rhymes, that us'd to linger on,
" To cenſure cold, and negligent or fame;
" In ſwifter meaſures animated run,
" And catch a luſtre from his genuine flame.
" Ah! could they catch his ſtrength, his eaſy grace,
" His quick creation, his unerring line;
" The energy of Pope they might efface,
" And Dryden's harmony ſubmit to mine.
" But not to one in this benighted age
" Is that diviner inſpiration giv'n,
" That burns in Shakeſocar's or in Milton's page,
" The pomp and prod [...]gality of heav'n.
[xiv]
" As when conſpiring in the di'mond's blaze,
" The meaner gems, that ſingly charm the ſight,
" Together dart their intermingled rays,
" And dazzle with a luxury of light.
" Enough for me, if to ſome feeling breaſt
" My lines a ſecret ſympathy impart,
" And, as their pleaſing influence flows confeſs'd,
" A ſigh of ſoft reflection heave the heart."

It appears, by a letter to Dr. Wharton, that Gray finiſhed his Ode on the Progreſs of Poetry early in 1755. The Bard alſo was begun about the ſame time; and the following beautiful Fragment on the Pleaſure ariſing from Viciſſitude the next year. The merit of the two former pieces was not immediately perceived, nor generally acknowledged. Garrick wrote a few lines in their praiſe. Lloyd and Colman wrote, in concert, two Odes to "Oblivion" and "Obſcurity," in which they were ridiculed with much ingenuity.

" Now the golden morn aloft
" Waves her dew-beſpangled wing,
" With vermil cheek, and whiſper ſoft,
" She wooes the tardy ſpring;
" Till April ſtarts, and calls around
" The ſleeping fragrance from the ground,
" And lightly o'er the living ſcene
" Scatters his freſheſt, tendereſt green.
" New born flocks, in ruſtic dance,
" Friſking ply their feeble feet;
" Forgetful of their wint'ry trance,
" The birds his preſence greet:
" But chief the ſkylark warb [...]es high
" His trembling, thrilling extacy;
" And, leſſening from the dazzled ſight,
" Melts into air and liquid light.
" Yeſterday the ſullen year
" Saw the ſnowy whirlwind fly;
" Mute was the muſic of the air,
" The herd ſtood drooping by:
" Their raptures now, that wildly flow,
" No yeſterday nor morrow know;
" 'Tis man alone that joy deſcries
" With forward and reverted eyes.
" Smiles on paſt misfortune's brow
" Soft reflection's hand can trace,
" And o'er the check of ſorrow throw
" A melancholy grace:
[xv]" While hope prolongs our happier hour;
" Or deepeſt ſhades, that dimly lower,
" And blacken round our weary way,
" Gilds with a gleam of diſtant day.
" Still where roſy pleaſure leads,
" See a kindred grief purſue,
" Behind the ſteps that miſery treads
" Approaching comfort view:
" The hues of bliſs more brightly glow,
" Chaſtiz'd by ſabler tints of woe;
" And blended form, with artf [...]l ſtrife,
" The ſtrength and harmony of life.
" See the wretch, that long has toſt
" On the thorny bed of Pain,
" At length repair his vigour loſt,
" And breathe and walk again.
" The meaneſt flow'ret of the vale,
" The ſimpleſt note that ſwells the gale,
" The common ſun, the air, the ſkies,
" To him are opening Paradiſe."

Our Author's reputation, as a Poet, was ſo high, that, on the death of Colley Cibber, in 1757, he had the honour of refuſing the office of Poet-Laureat, to which he was probably induced by the diſgrace brought upon it through the inability of ſome who had filled it.

His curioſity ſome time after drew him away from Cambridge to a lodging near the Britiſh Muſeum, where he reſided near three years, reading and tranſcribing.

In 1762, on the death of Mr. Turner, Profeſſor of Modern Languages and Hiſtory at Cambridge, he was, according to his own expreſſion, "cockered and ſpirited up" to apply to Lord Bute for the ſucceſſion. His Lordſhip refuſed him with all the politeneſs of a courtier, the office having been previouſly promiſed to Mr. Brocket, the tutor of Sir James Lowther.

His health being on the decline, in 1765 he undertook a journey to Scotland, conceiving he ſhould derive benefit from exerciſe and change of ſituation. His account of that country, as far as it extends, is curious and elegant; for as his mind was comprehenſive, it was employed in the contemplation of all the [xvi] works of art, all the appearances of nature, and all the monuments of paſt events.

During his ſtay in Scotland, he contracted a friendſhip with Dr. Beattie, in whom he found, as he himſelf expreſſes it, a poet, a philoſopher, and a good man. Through the intervention of his friend the Doctor, the Mariſchal College at Aberdeen offered him the degree of Doctor of Laws, which he thought it decent to decline, having omitted to take it at Cambridge.

In December, 1767, Dr. Beattie, ſtill deſirous that his country ſhould leave a memento of its regard to the merit of our Poet, ſolicited his permiſſion to print, at the Univerſity of Glaſgow, an elegant edition of his works. Gray could not comply with his friend's requeſt, as he had given his promiſe to Mr. Dodſley. However, as a compliment to them both, he preſented them with a copy, containing a few notes, and the imitations of the old Norwegian poetry, intended to ſupplant the Long Story, which was printed at firſt to illuſtrate Mr. Bentley's deſigns.

In 1768 our Author obtained that office without ſolicitation, for which he had before applied without effect. The Profeſſorſhip of Languages and Hiſtory again became vacant, and he received an offer of it from the Duke of Grafton, who had ſucceeded Lord Bute in office. The place was valuable in itſelf, the ſalary being 400l. a year; but it was rendered peculiarly acceptable to Mr. Gray, as he obtained it without ſolicitation.

Soon after he ſucceeded to this office, the impaired ſtate of his health rendered another journey neceſſary; and he viſited, in 1769, the counties of Weſtmoreland and Cumberland. His remarks on the wonderful ſcenery which theſe northern regions diſplay, he tranſmitted in epiſtolary journals to his friend, Dr. Wharton, which abound, according to Mr. Maſon's elegant [xvii] diction, with all the wildneſs of Salvator, and the ſoftneſs of Claude.

He appears to have been much affected by the anxiety he felt at holding a place without diſcharging the duties annexed to it. He had always deſigned reading lectures, but never put it in practice; and a conſciouſneſs of this neglect contributed not a little to increaſe the malady under which he had long laboured: nay, the office at length became ſo irkſome, that he ſeriouſly propoſed to reſign it.

Towards the cloſe of May, 1771, he removed from Cambridge to London, after having ſuffered violent attacks of an hereditary gout, to which he had long been ſubject, notwithſtanding he had obſerved the moſt rigid abſtemiouſneſs throughout the whole courſe of his life. By the advice of his phyſicians, he removed from London to Kenſington; the air of which place proved ſo ſalutary, that he was ſoon enabled to return to Cambridge, whence he deſigned to make a viſit to his friend Dr. Wharton, at Old Park, near Durham; indulging a fond hope that the excurſion would tend to the re-eſtabliſhment of his health: but, alas! that hope proved deluſive. On the 24th of July he was ſeized, while at dinner in the College hall, with a ſudden nauſea, which obliged him to retire to his chamber. The gout had fixed on his ſtomach in ſuch a degree as to reſiſt all the powers of medicine. On the 29th he was attacked with a ſtrong convulſion, which returned with increaſed violence the enſuing day; and on the evening of the [...]ſt of May, 177 [...], he departed this life in the 55th year of his age.

From the narrative of his friend, Mr. Maſon, it appears, that Gray was actuated by motives of ſelf improvement, and ſelf gratification, in his application to the Muſes, rather than any view to pecuniary emolument. His purſuits were in general diſintereſted; and as he was free from avarice on the one hand, ſo was he from extravagance on the other; being one of [xviii] thoſe few characters in the annals of literature, eſpecially in the poetical claſs, who are devoid of ſelf intereſt, and at the ſame time attentive to economy; but Mr. Maſon adds, that he was induced to decline taking any advantage of his literary productions by a degree of pride, which influenced him to diſdain the idea of being thought an author by profeſſion.

It appears, from the ſame narrative, that Gray made conſiderable progreſs in the ſtudy of architecture, particularly the gothic. He endeavoured to trace this branch of the ſcience, from the period of its commencement, through its various changes, till it arrived at its perfection in the time of Henry VIII. He applied himſelf alſo to the ſtudy of heraldry, of which he obtained a very competent knowledge, as appears from his Remarks on Saxon Churches, in the introduction to Mr. Bentham's Hiſtory of Ely.

But the favourite ſtudy of Gray, for the laſt two years of his life, was natural hiſtory, which he rather reſumed than began, as he had acquired ſome knowledge of botany in early life, while he was under the tuition of his uncle Antrobus. He wrote copious marginal notes to the works of Linnaeus, and other writers in the three kingdoms of nature: and Mr. Maſon further obſerves, that, excepting pure mathematics, and the ſtudies dependent on that ſcience, there was hardly any part of human learning in which he had not acquired a competent ſkill; in moſt of them a conſummate maſtery.

Mr. Maſon has declined drawing any formal character of him; but has adopted one from a letter to James Boſwell, Eſq. by the Rev. Mr. Temple, Rector of St. Gluvias, in Cornwall, firſt printed anonymouſly in the London Magazine, which, as we conceive authentic, from the ſanction of Mr. Maſon, we ſhall therefore tranſcribe.

‘Perhaps he was the moſt learned man in Europe. He was equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of ſcience, and that not ſuperficially, but [xix] thoroughly. He knew every branch of hiſtory, both natural and civil; had read all the original hiſtorians of England, France, and Italy; and was a great antiquarian. Criticiſm, metaphyſics, morals, and politics, made a principal part of his ſtudy; voyages and travels of all ſorts were his favourite amuſements; and he had a fine taſte in painting, prints, architecture, and gardening. With ſuch a fund of knowledge, his converſation muſt have been equally inſtructive and entertaining; but he was alſo a good man, a man of virtue and humanity. There is no character without ſome ſpeck, ſome imperfection; and I think the greateſt defect in his was an affectation in delicacy, or rather effeminacy, and a viſible faſtidiouſneſs, or contempt and diſdain of his inferiors in ſcience. He alſo had, in ſome degree, that weakneſs which diſguſted Voltaire ſo much in Mr. Congreve: though he ſeemed to value others chiefly according to the progreſs they had made in knowledge, yet he could not bear to be conſidered himſelf merely as a man of letters; and though without birth, or fortune, or ſtation, his deſire was to be looked upon as a private independent gentleman, who read for his amuſement. Perhaps it may be ſaid, What ſignifies ſo much knowledge, when it produced ſo little? Is it worth taking ſo much pains to leave no memorial but a few Poems? But let it be conſidered that Mr. Gray was, to others, at leaſt innocently employed; to himſelf, certainly beneficially. His time paſſed agreeably; he was every day making ſome new acquiſition in ſcience; his mind was enlarged, his heart ſoftened, his virtue ſtrengthened; the world and mankind were ſhewn to him without a maſk; and he was taught to conſider every thing as trifling, and unworthy of the attention of a wiſe man, except the purſuit of knowledge and practice of virtue, in that ſtate wherein God hath placed us.’

In addition to this character, Mr. Maſon has remarked, that Gray's effeminacy was affected moſt [xx] before thoſe whom he did not wiſh to pleaſe; and that he is unjuſtly charged with making knowledge his ſole reaſon of preference, as he paid his eſteem to none whom he did not likewiſe believe to be good.

Dr. Johnſon makes the following obſervations:— ‘What has occurred to me, from the ſlight inſpection of his letters, in which my undertaking has engaged me, is, that his mind had a large graſp; that his curioſity was unlimited, and his judgment cultivated; that he was a man likely to love much where he loved at all, but that he was faſtidious, and hard to pleaſe. His contempt, however, is often employed, where I hope it will be approved, upon ſcepticiſm and inſidelity. His ſhort account of Shafteſbury I will inſert.’

‘You ſay you cannot conceive how lord Shaſteſbury came to be a philoſopher in vogue; I will tell you: firſt, he was a lord; ſecondly, he was as vain as any of his readers; thirdly, men are very prone to believe what they do not underſtand; fourthly, they will believe any thing at all, provided they are under no obligation to believe it; fifthly, they love to take a new road, even when that road leads no where; ſixthly, he was reckoned a fine writer, and ſeems always to mean more than he ſaid. Would you have any more reaſons? An interval of above forty years has pretty well deſtroyed the charm. A dead lord ranks with commoners: vanity is no longer intereſted in the matter; for a new road is become an old one.’

As a writer he had this peculiarity, that he did not write his pieces firſt rudely, and then correct them, but laboured every line as it aroſe in the train of compoſition; and he had a notion not very peculiar, that he could not write but at certain times, or at happy moments; a fantaſtic foppery, to which our kindneſs for a man of learning and of virtue wiſhes him to have been ſuperior.

As a Poet he ſtands high in the eſtimation of the candid and judicious. His works are not numerous; [xxi] but they bear the marks of intenſe application, and careful reviſion. The Elegy in the Churchyard is deemed his maſter-piece; the ſubject is intereſting, the ſentiment ſimple and pathetic, and the verſification charmingly melodious. This beautiful compoſition has been often ſelected by orators for the diſplay of their rhetorical talents. But as the moſt finiſhed productions of the human mind have not eſcaped cenſure, the works of our Author have undergone illiberal comments. His Elegy has been ſuppoſed defective in want of plan. Dr. Knox, in his Eſſays, has obſerved, ‘that it is thought by ſome to be no more than a confuſed heap of ſplendid ideas, thrown together without order and without proportion.’ Some paſſages have been cenſured by Kelly in the Babbler; and imitations of different authors have been pointed out by other critics. But theſe imitations cannot be aſcertained, as there are numberleſs inſtances of coincidence of ideas; ſo that it is difficult to ſay, with preciſion, what is or is not a deſigned or accidental imitation.

Gray, in his Elegy in the Church-yard, has great merit in adverting to the moſt intereſting paſſions of the human mind; yet his genius is not marked alone by the tender ſenſibility ſo conſpicuous in that elegant piece; but there is a ſublimity which gives it an equal claim to univerſal admiration.

His Odes on The Progreſs of Poetry, and of The Bard, according to Mr. Maſon's account, ‘breathe the high ſpirit of lyric enthuſiaſm. The tranſitions are ſudden and impetuous; the language full of fire and force; and the imagery carried, without impropriety, to the moſt daring height. They have been accuſed of obſcurity: but the one can be obſcure to thoſe only who have not read Pindar; and the other only to thoſe who are unacquainted with the hiſtory of our own nation.’

Of his other lyric pieces, Mr. Wakefield, a learned and ingenious commentator, obſerves, that, though, [xxii] like all other human productions, they are not without their defects, yet the ſpirit of poetry, and exquiſite charms of the verſe, are more then a compenſation for thoſe defects. The Ode on Eton College abounds with ſentiments natural, and conſonant to the feelings of humanity, exhibited with perſpicuity of method, and in elegant, intelligible, and expreſſive language. The Sonnet on the Death of Weſt, and the Epitaph on Sir William Williams, are as perfect compoſitions of the kind as any in our language.

Dr. Johnſon was confeſſedly a man of great genius; but the partial and uncandid mode of criticiſm he has adopted in his remarks on the writings of Gray, has given to liberal minds great and juſt offence. According to Mr. Maſon's account, he has ſubjected Gray's poetry to the moſt rigorous examination. Declining all conſideration of the general plan and conduct of the pieces, he has confined himſelf ſolely to ſtrictures on words and forms of expreſſion; and Mr. Maſon very pertinently adds, that verbal criticiſm is an ordeal which the moſt perfect compoſition cannot paſs without injury.

He has alſo fallen under Mr. Wakefield's ſevereſt cenſure. This commentator affirms, that ‘he thinks a refutation of his ſtrictures upon Gray a neceſſary ſervice to the public, without which they might operate with a malignant influence upon the national taſte. His cenſure, however, is too general, and expreſſed with too much vehemence; and his remarks betray, upon the whole, an unreaſonable faſtidiouſneſs of taſte, and an unbecoming illiberality of ſpirit. He appears to have turned an unwilling eye upon the beauties of Gray, becauſe his jealouſy would not ſuffer him to ſee ſuch ſuperlative merit in a cotemporary.’ Theſe remarks of Mr. Wakefield appear to be well founded; and it has been obſerved, by another writer, that Dr. Johnſon, being ſtrongly influenced by his political and religious principles, was inclined to treat with [xxiii] the utmoſt ſeverity ſome of the productions of our beſt writers; to which may be imputed that ſeverity with which he cenſures the lyric performances of Gray. It is highly probable that no one poetical reader will univerſally ſubſcribe to his deciſions, though all may admire his vaſt intuitive knowledge, and power of diſcrimination.

In the firſt copy of this exquiſite Poem, Mr. Maſon obſerves, the concluſion was different from that which the Author afterwards compoſed; and though his after-thought was unqueſtionably the beſt, yet there is a pathetic melancholy in the four ſtanzas that were rejected, following, "With incenſe kindled at the Muſes' flame," which highly claim preſervation.

The thoughtleſs wor'd to Majeſty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize ſucceſs;
But more to innocence their ſafety owe,
Than pow'r or genius e'er conſpir'd to bleſs.
And thou who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Duſt in the [...]e notes their artleſs tale relate,
By night and lonely contemplation led,
To wander in the gloomy walks of fate,
Hark! how the ſacred calm, that breathes around,
Bids every fierce tumultuous paſſion. ceaſe;
In ſtill ſmall accents whiſpering from the ground,
A grateful earneſt of eternal peace.
No more, with reaſon and thyſelf at ſtrife,
Give a [...]xious cares and endleſs wiſhes room;
But, throu [...]h the cool ſequeſter'd vale of life,
Purſue the ſilent tenor or thy doom.

In one inſtance, the Doctor's inconſiſtency, and deviation from his general character, does him honour. After having commented with the moſt rigid ſeverity on the poetical works of Gray, as it conſcious of the injuſtice done him, he ſeems to apologize by the following declaration, which concludes his Criticiſm, and ſhall conclude the Memoirs of our Author.

‘In the character of his Elegy (ſays Johnſon) I rejoice and concur with the common reader; for, by the common ſenſe of readers, uncorrupted with literary [xxiv] prejudices, after all the refinements of ſubtilty, and the dogmatiſm of learning, muſt be finally decided all claim to poetical honours. The Church-yard abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with ſentiments to which every boſom returns an echo. The four ſtanzas beginning, Yet e'en theſe bones are to me original; I have never ſeen the notions in any other place; yet he that reads them here, perſuades himſelf that he has always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it had been vain to blame, and uſeleſs to praiſe him.’

THE TEARS OF GENIUS, AN ODE, TO THE MEMORY OF MR. GRAY.

(By J. T-------.)
ON Cham's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'd fane
Majeſtic riſes on th' aſtoniſh'd ſight,
Where oft the Muſe has led the fav'rite ſwain,
And warm'd his foul with heav'n's inſpiring ſight;
Beneath the covert of the ſylvan ſhade,
Where deadly cypreſs, mix'd with mournful yew,
Far o'er the vale a gloomy ſtillneſs ſpread,
Celeſtial Genius burſt upon the view.
The bloom of youth, the majeſty of years.
The ſoften'd aſpect, innocent and kind,
The ſigh of ſorrow, and the ſtreaming tears,
Reſiſtleſs all, their various pow'r combin'd.
In her fair hand a ſilver harp ſhe bore,
Whoſe magic notes, ſoft warbling from the ſtring,
Give tranquil joys the breaſt ne'er knew before,
Or raiſe the ſoul on rapture's airy wing.
By grief impell'd, I heard her heave a ſigh,
While thus the rapid ſtrain reſoanded thro' the ſky:
Haſte ye ſiſter pow'rs of Song!
Haſten from the ſhady grove,
Where the river ro [...] along
Sweetly to the voice of love;
Where, indulging mirthful pleaſures,
Light you preſs the flow'ry green,
And from Flora's blooming treaſures
Call the wreath for Fancy's queen;
Where your gently-flowing numbers,
Floating on the fragrant breeze,
Sink the ſoul in pleaſing ſlumbers
On the downy bed [...],
[xxv]
For graver ſtrains prepare the plaintive lyre,
That wakes the ſofteſt feelings of the ſoul;
Let lonely grief the melting verſe inſpire,
Let deep'ning ſorrow's ſolemn 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 Muſe, whoſe fav'ring ſmile
So lately warm'd his peaceful breaſt,
Diffuſing heav'nly joys the while,
In Tranſport's radiant garments dreſt,
With darkſome grandeur, and enfeebled blaze,
Sinks in the ſhades to 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 ſport on Thames's ſide,
With cool regard their various arts employ,
Nor rouſe the drooping mind, nor give the pauſe of joy.
Ha! what forms, with port ſublime,§
Glide along in ſullen mood,
Scorning all the threats of time,
High above misfortune's flood!
They ſeize their harps, they ſtrike the lyre,
With rapid hand, with freedom's fire;
Obedient Nature hears the lofty ſound,
And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly ſtrains reſound.
In pomp of [...]ate behold they wait,
With arms outſtretch'd and aſpects kind,
To ſnatch on high to yonder ſky
The child of Fancy left behind;
Forgot the woes of Camoria's fatal day,
By rapture's blaze impell'd, they ſwell the artleſs lay.
But, ah! in vain they ſtrive to ſooth
With gentle arts the tort'ring hours.
Adversity with rankl [...]ng tooth
Her baleful gifts profuſely pours.
Behold ſhe comes! the fiend forlorn,
Array'd in Horrour's ſettled gloom;
She ſtrews the brier and prickly thorn,
And triumphs in th' infernal doom;
With frantic fury, and inſatiate rage,
She gnaws the throbbing breaſt, and blaſts the gl [...]g page.
No more the ſoft [...]olian flute
Breathes thro' the [...]eart the melting ſtrain,
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 Laden hand of com [...] Deſpair.
[xxvi]
Yet ſtay. O ſtay! celeſtial Pow'rs!
And with a hand of kind regard
Diſpel the boiſt'rous ſtorm that lours
Deſtructive on the fav'rite bard;
O watch with me his laſt expiring breath,
And ſnatch him from the arms of dark oblivious Death!
Hark! the Fatal Siſters join,
And, with horrour's mutt'ring ſounds,
Weave the tiſſue of his line,
Whi [...]e the dreadful ſpell reſounds,
" Hail, ye midnight Siſters! hail!
" Drive the ſhuttle ſwift along,
" Let our ſecret charms prevail
" O'er the valiant and the ſtrong;
" O'er the glory of the land,
" O'er the innocent and gay,
" O'er the Muſes' tuneful band,
" Weave the ſun'ral web of Gray."
'Tis done, 'tis done—the iron hand of Pain,
With ruthleſs fury and corroſive force,
Racks ev'ry joint, and ſeizes ev'ry vein:
He ſinks, he groans, he [...], a lifeleſs corſe!
Thus fades the flow'r, nipp'd by the frozen gale,
Tho' once ſo ſweet, ſo lovely to the eye;
Thus the tail oaks, when boiſt'rous ſtorms aſſail,
Torn from the earth, a mighty ruin lie.
Ye ſacred Siſters of the plaintive verſe,
Now let the ſtream of fond affection flow;
O pay your tribute o'er the ſlow-drawn hearſe
With all the manly dignity of woe!
Oft' when the curfew tells its parting kne [...],
With ſolemn pauſe yon' Churchyard's gl [...] ſurvey,
While ſorrow's ſighs and tears of pity [...]ell
How juſt the moral of the poet's lay.*
O'er his green grave, in Contemplation's guiſe,
Oft' let the pilgrim drop a ſilent tear,
Oft' let the ſhepherd's tender accents riſe,
Big with the ſweets of each revolving year,
Till proſtrate Time adore his deathleſs name,
Fix'd on the ſolid baſe of adamantine fame.

ODES.

[]

ODE I. ON THE SPRING.

LO! where the roſy-boſom'd hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Diſcloſe the long-expecting flow'rs,
And wake the purple year,
The attic warbler pours her throat
Reſponſive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of ſpring,
While, whiſp'ring pleaſure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue ſky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches ſtretch
A broader, browner ſhade,
Where'er the rude and moſs-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,*
Beſide ſome water's ruſhy brink
With me the Muſe ſhall ſit, and think
(At eaſe reclin'd in ruſtic ſtate)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little, are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The panting herds repoſe,
Yet hark! how thro' the peopled air
The buſy murmur glows!
The inſect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taſte the honey'd ſpring,
[28]And float amid the liquid noon;*
Some lightly o'er the current ſkim,
Some ſhew their gayly-gilded trim,
Quick-glancing to the ſun.
To contemplation's ſober eye,
Such is the race of man,
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the buſy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,
In Fortune's varying colours dreſt;
Bruſh'd by the hand of rough Miſchance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in duſt to reſt.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The ſportive kind reply,
Poor Moraliſt! and what art thou?
A ſolitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive haſt thou of hoarded ſweets,
No painted plumage to diſplay;
On haſty wings thy youth is flown,
Thy ſun is ſet, thy ſpring is gone—
We frolic while 'tis May.

ODE II. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fiſhes.

'TWAS on a lofty vaſe's ſide,
Where China's gayeſt art had dy'd
The azure flow'rs that blow,
Demureſt of the tabby kind,
The penſive Selima, reclin'd,
Gaz'd on the lake below.
[29]
Her conſcious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the ſnowy beard,
The velvet or her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoiſe vies,
Her ears of jet, and em'rald eyes,
She ſaw, and purr'd applauſe.
Still had ſhe gaz'd, but, 'midſt the tide,
Two angel forms were ſeen to glide,
The Genii of the ſtream;
Their ſcaly armour's Tyrian hue,
Thro' richeſt purple, to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.
The hapleſs nymph with wonder ſaw:
A whiſker firſt, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wiſh,
She ſtretch'd in vain to reach the prize:
What female heart can gold deſpiſe?
What Cat's averſe to fiſh?
Preſumpt'ous maid! with looks intent,
Again ſhe ſtretch'd, again ſhe bent,
Nor knew the gulf between:
(Malignant Fate ſat by and ſmil'd.)
The ſlipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd;
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god
Some ſpeedy aid to ſend.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid ſtirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom or Suſan heard:
A fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties! undeceiv'd,
Know one false ſtep is ne'er retriev'd,
And be with caution bold:
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes,
And heedleſs hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that gliſters gold.

ODE III. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

[30]
[...]
Menander.
YE diſtant Spires! ye antique Tow'rs!
That crown the watry glade
Where grateful Science ſtill adores
Her Henry's* holy ſhade;
And ye that from the ſtately brow
Of Windſor's heights th' expanſe below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead, ſurvey,
Whoſe turf, whoſe ſhade, whoſe flow'rs, among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His ſilver-winding way:
Ah happy hills! ah pleaſing ſhade!
Ah fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careleſs childhood ſtray'd,
A ſtranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bilſs beſtow,
As waving freſh their gladſome wing
My weary ſoul they ſeem to ſooth,
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 enthral?
What idle progeny ſucceed
To chaſe the rolling circle's ſpeed,
Or urge the flying ball?
[31]
While ſome, on earneſt bus'neſs bent,
Their murm'ring labours ply
'Gainſt graver hours, that bring conſtraint,
To ſweeten liberty;
Some bold adventurers diſdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare deſcry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,
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;
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! ſhew them where in ambuſh ſtand,
To ſeize their prey, the murd'rous 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 ſculks behind;
Or pining Love ſhall waſte their youth,
Or Jealouſy, with rankling tooth,
[32]That inly gnaws the ſecret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-viſag'd, 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 grinning Infamy:
The ſtings of Falſehood thoſe ſhall try,
And hard Unkindneſs' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorſe, with blood defil'd,
And moody Madneſs* laughing wild
Amid ſevereſt woe.
Lo! in the vale of years beneath
A griſly troop are ſeen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That ev'ry lab'ring ſinew ſtrains,
Thoſe in the deeper vitals rage;
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the ſoul with icy hand,
And ſlow-conſuming Age.
To each his ſuff'rings; all are men
Condemn'd al [...]ke to groan;
The tender for another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why ſhould they know their fate,
Since ſorrow never comes too late,
And happineſs too ſwiftly flies?
Thought would deſtroy their paradiſe.
No more; where ignorance is bliſs
'Tis folly to be wiſe.

ODE IV. TO ADVERSITY.

[33]
[...]
[...]
[...]
[...]
Aeſchylus in Agamemnone.
DAUGHTER of Jove, relentleſs pow'r,
Thou tamer of the human breaſt,
Whoſe iron ſcourge and tort'ring hour
The bad affright, afflict the beſt!
Bound in thy adamantine chain,
The proud are taught to taſte of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpity'd and alone.
When firſt thy ſire to ſend on earth
Virtue, his darling child, deſign'd,
To thee he gave the heav'nly birth,
And bad to form her infant mind;
Stern rugged nurſe! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year ſhe bore;
What ſorrow was thou bad'ſt her know,
And from her own ſhe learn'd to melt at others' woe.
Scar'd at thy frown terrific fly
Self-pleaſing Folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noiſe, and thoughtleſs Joy,
And leave us leiſure to be good.
Light they diſperſe; and with them go
The ſummer friend, the flatt'ring foe;
By vain Proſperity receiv'd,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.
Wiſdom, in ſable garb array'd,
Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, ſilent maid,
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
[34] Still on thy ſolemn ſteps attend;
Warm Charity, the gen'ral friend,
With Juſtice, to herſelf ſevere,
And Pity, dropping ſoft the ſadly-pleaſing tear.
Oh! gently on thy ſuppliant's head,
Dread goddeſs! lay thy chaſt'ning hand,
Not in thy Gorgon terrours clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful band:
(As by the impious thou art ſeen,)
With thund'ring voice and threatning mien,
With ſcreaming Horrour's fun'ral cry,
Deſpair, and fell Diſeaſe, and ghaſtly Poverty.
Thy form benign, O Goddeſs! wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philoſophic train be there,
To ſoften, not to wound, my heart:
The gen'rous ſpark extinct revive;
Teach me to love and to forgive;
Exact my own defects to ſcan,
What others are to feel, and know myſelf a man.

ODE V. THE PROGRESS OF POESY. PINDARICK.

[35]

Advertiſement.

WHEN the Author firſt publiſhed this and the following Ode, he was adviſed, even by his Friends, to ſubjoin ſome few explanatory Notes, but had too much reſpect for the Underſtanding of his Readers to take that Liberty.

[...]
[...]
[...]
Pindar, Olymp. ii.
I. 1.
AWAKE, Aeolian lyre! awake,*
And give to rapture all thy trembling ſtrings;
From Helicon's harmonious ſprings
A thouſand rills their mazy progreſs take;
The laughing flow'rs, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich ſtream of muſick winds along
Deep, majeſtic, ſmooth, and ſtrong,
Thro' verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign;
Now rolling down the ſteep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, ſee it pour;
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
I. 2.
Oh! Sov'reign of the willing ſoul,
Parent of ſweet and ſolemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting ſhell! the ſullen Cares
And frantic Paſſions hear thy ſoft controul.
[36] On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curb'd the fury of his car,
And dropp'd his thirſty lance at thy command:
Perching on the ſceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing;
Quench'd in dark clouds of ſlumber lie
The terrour of his beak and lightnings of his eye.
I. 3.
Thee the voice, the dance obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay:
O'er Idalia's velvet green
The roſy-crowned Loves are ſeen,
On Cytherea's day,
With antic Sports and blue-ey'd Pleaſures
Friſking light in frolic meaſures:
Now purſuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet;
To briſk notes in cadence beating,
Gla [...]e their many-twinkling feet.§
Slow-melting ſtrains their queen's approach declare;
Where'er ſhe turns the Graces homage pay;
With arms ſublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding ſtate ſhe wins her eaſy way:
O'er her warm cheek and riſing boſom move
The bloom of young deſire and purple light of love.
II. 1.
Man's feeble race what ills await!
Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Diſeaſe, and Sorrow's weeping train,
And Death, ſad refuge from the ſtorms of Fate!
[37] The fond complaint, my Song! diſprove,
And juſtify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muſe?
Night and all her ſickly dews,
Her ſpectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary ſky,
Till down the eaſtern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they ſpy and glitt'ring ſhafts of war.
II. 2.
In climes beyond the Solar Road,§
Where ſhaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muſe has broke the twilight-gloom
To cheer the ſhiv'ring native's dull abode:
And oft' beneath the od'rous ſhade
Of Chili's boundleſs foreſts laid,
She deigns to hear the ſavage youth repeat,
In looſe numbers, wildly ſweet,
Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs and duſky loves.
Her track, where'er the goddeſs roves,
Glory purſue, and gen'rous ſhame,
Th' uconquerable mind and needom's holy flame.
II. 3.
Woods that wave o'er Delphia's ſteep,
Iſles that crown th' Aegian deep,
Fields that cool Iliſſus laves,
Or where Maeander's amber waves
In ling'ring lab'rmths creep,
[38] How do your tuneful echoes languiſh,
Mute but to the voice of Anguiſh?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inſpiration breath'd around,
Ev'ry ſhade and hallow'd fountain
Murmur'd deep a ſolemn ſound,
Till the ſad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,
Left their Parnaſſus for the Latian plains:
Alike they ſcorn the pomp of tyrant Pow'r
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty ſpirit loſt,
They ſought, oh Albion! next thy ſea-encircled coaſt.
III. 1.
Far from the ſun and ſummer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon ſtray'd,
To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntleſs child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and ſmil'd.
This pencil take (ſhe ſaid) whoſe colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year;
Thine too theſe golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy,
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the ſacred ſource of ſympathetic Tears.
III. 2.
Nor ſecond he that rode ſublime
Upon the ſeraph-wings of Ecſtacy,
The ſecrets of th' abyſs to ſpy,
He paſs'd the flaming bounds of place and time:§
The living throne, the ſapphire-blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
[]

GRAYS' POESIS

Approach, & read (for thou canſt read) the lay
Grav'd on the ſtone beneath yon' aged thorn

[...]

Drawn by [...] January [...] 1799.

[39] He ſaw, but, blaſted with exceſs of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endleſs night.*
Behold where Dryden's leſs preſumptuous car
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two courſers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd and long-reſounding pace.
III. 3.
Hark! his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-ey'd Fancy, hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe and words that burn;§
But ah! 'tis heard no more
Oh, lyre divine! what dying ſpirit
Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride nor ample pinion
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with ſupreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air,
Yet oft' before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muſe's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the ſun;
Yet ſhall he mount, and keep his diſtant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

ODE VI. THE BARD. PINDARICK.

[40]

Advertiſement.

THE following Ode is founded on a Tradition current in Wales, that Edward 1. when he completed the Conqueſt or that Country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his Hands to be put to Death.

I. 1.
' RUIN ſeize thee, ruthleſs King!
' Confuſion on thy banners wait;
' Tho' fann'd by Conqueſt's crimſon wing,
' They mock, the air with idle ſtate.*
' Helm nor hauberk's twiſted mail,
' Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant! ſhall avail
' To ſave thy ſecret ſoul from nightly fears;
' From Cambria's curſe, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the ſounds that o'er the creſted pride
Of the firſt Edward ſcatter'd wild diſmay,
As down the ſteep of Snowdon's ſhaggy ſide§
He wound with toilſome march his long array:
Stout Glo'ſter ſtood aghaſt in ſpeechleſs trance:
To arms! cry'd Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.
[41]I. 2.
On a rock, whoſe haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob'd in the ſable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet ſtood;
(Looſe his beard, and hoary hair*
Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air,)
And with a maſter's hand and prophet's fire
Struck the deep ſorrows of his lyre.
' Hark how each giant oak and deſert cave
' Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
' O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
' Revenge on thee in hoarſer murmurs breathe;
' Vocal no more, ſince Cambria's fatal day,
' To highborn Hoel's harp, or ſoft Llewellyn's lay.
I. 3.
' Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
' That huſh'd the ſtormy main;
' Brave Urien ſleeps upon his craggy bed:
' Mountains! ye moan in vain
' Modrid, whoſe magic ſong
' Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.
' On dreary Arvon's ſhore they lie,
' Smear'd with gore and ghaſtly pale;
' Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens fail,
' The famiſh'd eagle§ ſcreams and paſſes by.
[42] ' Dear loſt companions of my tuneful art,
' Dear as the light that viſits theſe ſad eyes,
' Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
' Ye dy'd amidſt your dying country's cries—
' No more I weep. They do not ſleep:
' On yonder cliffs, a griſly band,
' I ſee them ſit; they linger yet,
' Avengers of their native land;
' With me in dreadful harmony they join,
' And weave* with bloody hands the tiſſue of thy line.'
II. 1.
" Weave the warp and weave the woof,
" The winding-ſheet of Edward's race;
" Give ample room and verge enough
" The characters of hell to trace.
" Mark the year and mark the night
" When Severn ſhall re-echo with affright
" The ſhrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
" Shrieks of an agonizing king!
" She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
" That tear'ſt the bowels of thy mangled mate,
" From thee§ be born who o'er thy country hangs
" The ſcourge of Heav'n. What terrors round him wait!
" Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd,
" And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
II. 2.
" Mighty victor, mighty lord,
" Low on his fun'ral couch he lies!
" No pitying heart, no eye, afford
" A tear to grace his obſequies!
[43] " Is the ſable warrior* fled?
" Thy ſon is gone; he reſts among the dead.
" The ſwarm that in thy noontide beam were born,
" Gone to ſalute the riſing morn:
" Fair laughs the morn, and ſoft the zephyr blows,
" While proudly riding o'er the azure realm,
" In gallant trim the gilded veſſel goes,
" Youth on the prow and Pleaſure at the helm,
" Regardleſs of the ſweeping whirlwind's ſway,
" That huſh'd in grim repoſe expects his ev'ning prey.
II. 3.
" Fill high the ſparkling bowl,
" The rich repaſt prepare;
" Reſt of a crown, he yet may ſhare the feaſt.
" Cloſe by the regal chair
" Fell Thirſt and Famine ſcowl
" A baleful ſmile upon the baffled gueſt.
" Heard ye the din of battle bray,§
" Lance to lance and horſe to horſe?
" Long years of havock urge their deſtin'd courſe,
" And thro' the kindred ſquadrons mow their way.
" Ye Tow'rs of Julius! London's laſting ſhame,
" With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
" Revere his conſort's faith, his father's** fame,
" And ſpare the meek, uſurper's†† holy head.
[44] " Above, below, the Roſe of ſnow,*
" Twin'd with her bluſhing foe, we ſpread;
" The briſtled Boar in infant gore
" Wallows beneath the thorny ſhade.
" Now, Brothers'! bending o'er th' accurſed loom,
" Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
III. 1.
" Edward, lo! to ſudden fate
" (Weave we the woof; the thread is ſpun:)
" Half of thy heart we conſecrate;
" (The web is wove; the work is done." )
' Stay, oh ſtay! nor thus forlorn
' Leave me unbleſs'd, unpity'd, here to mourn.
' In yon' bright track, that fires the weſtern ſkies,
' They melt, they vaniſh from my eyes.
' But oh! what ſolemn ſcenes on Snowdon's height,
' Deſcending flow, their glitt'ring ſkirts unroll!
' Viſions of glory! ſpare my aching ſight,
' Ye unborn ages crowd not on my ſoul!
' No more our long-loſt Arthur§ we bewail:
' All hail, ye genuine Kings; Britannia's iſſue, hail!
III. 2.
' Girt with many a baron bold
' Sublime their ſtarry fronts they rear,
' And gorgeous dames and ſtateſmen old
' In bearded majeſty appear;
' In the midſt a form divine,
' Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line,
[45] ' Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,*
' Attemper'd ſweet to virgin-grace.
' What ſtrings ſymphonious tremble in the air!
' What ſtrains of vocal tranſport round her play!
' Hear from the grave, great Talieſſin! hear!
' They breathe a ſoul to animate thy clay.
' Bright Rapture calls, and, ſoaring as ſhe ſings,
' Waves in the eye of heav'n her many-colour'd wings.
III. 3.
' The verſe adorn again
' Fierce War, and faithful Love,
' And Truth ſevere, by Fairy Fiction dreſt.
' In buſkin'd meaſures move
' Pale Grief, and pleaſing Pain,
' With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breaſt.
' A voice§ as of the cherub-choir
' Gales from blooming Eden bear,
' And diſtant warblings leſſen on my ear,
' That loſt in long futurity expire.
' Fond impious man! think'ſt thou yon' ſanguine cloud,
' Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
' To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
' And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
' Enough for me: with joy I ſee
' The diff'rent doom our Fates aſſign:
' Be thine deſpair and ſceptred care;
' To triumph and to die are mine.'
He ſpoke, and headlong from the mountain's height,
Deep in the roaring tide, he plung'd to endleſs night.

Advertisement.

[46]

THE Author once had Thoughts (in concert with a Friend) of giving a Hiſtory of Engliſh Poetry. In the Introduction to it he meant to have produced ſome Specimens of the Style that reigned in ancient Times among the neighbouring Nations, or thoſe who had ſubdued the greater Part of this Iſland, and were our Progenitors: the following three Imitations made a Part of them. He afterwards dropped his Deſign; eſpecially after he had head that it was already in the Hands of a Perſon well qualified to do it Juſtice both by his Taſte and his Reſearches into Antiquity.

ODE VII. THE FATAL SISTERS.64 FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.
To be found in the Orcades of Thermodus Torfaeus, Hafniae, 1679, Folio; and alſo in Bartholinus.

‘Vitt er oprit fyrir Valfalli, &c.’

PREFACE.

IN the 11th Century, Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney Iſlands, went with a Fleet of Ships and a conſiderable Body of Troops, into Ireland, to the Aſſiſtance of Sigtryg with the ſilken Beard, who was then making War on his Father-in Law, Brian, King of Dublin. The Earl and all his Forces were cut to Pieces, and Sigtryg was in Danger of a total Defeat; but the Enemy had a greater Loſs by the Death of Brian, their King, who fell in the Action. On Chriſtmas-day (the Day of the Battle) a Native of Caithneſs in Scotland, ſaw, at a Diſtance, a Number of Perſons on Horſeback riding full ſpeed towards a Hill, and [...]eeming to enter into it. Curioſity led him to follow them, till, looking through an opening in the Rocks, he ſaw Twelve gigantic Figures, reſembling Women: they were all employed about a Loom; and as they wove they ſung the following dreadful Song, which, when they had finiſhed, they tore the Web into twelve Pieces, and each taking her Portion, gallopped six to the North, and as many to the South.

NOW the ſtorm begins to low'r,
(Haſte, the loom of hell prepare,)
Iron-ſleet of arrowy ſhow'r*
Hurtles † in the darken'd air.
Glitt'ring lances are the loom
Where the duſky warp we ſtrain,
Weaving many a ſoldier's doom,
Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.
[47]
See the griſly texture grow,
('Tis of human entrails made,)
And the weights that play below
Each a gaſping warrior's head.
Shafts for ſhuttles, dipt in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along:
Sword, that once a monarch bore,
Keep the tiſſue cloſe and ſtrong.
Miſta, black terrific maid!
Sangrida and Hilda ſee,
Join the wayward work to aid;
'Tis the woof of victory.
Ere the ruddy ſun be ſet
Pikes muſt ſhiver, jav'lins ſing,
Blade with clatt'ring buckler meet,
Hauberk craſh, and helmet ring.
(Weave the crimſon web of war)
Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict ſhare,
Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of Fate we tread,
Wading thro' th' enſanguin'd field,
Gondula and Geira ſpread
O'er the youthful king your ſhield.
We the reins to ſlaughter give,
Ours to kill and ours to ſpare:
Spite of danger he ſhall live;
(Weave the crimſon web of war.)
They whom once the deſert beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample ſway ſhall ſtretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.
[48]
Low the dauntleſs earl is laid,
Gor'd with many a gaping wound:
Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a king ſhall bite the ground.
Long his loſs ſhall Eirin* weep,
Ne'er again his likeneſs ſee;
Long her ſtrains in ſorrow ſteep,
Strains of immortality!
Horror covers all the heath,
Clouds of carnage blot the ſun:
Siſters! weave the web of death:
Siſters! ceaſe; the work is done.
Hail the taſk and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph ſing;
Joy to the victorious bands,
Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal! thou that hear'ſt the tale,
Learn the tenour of our ſong;
Scotland! thro' each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.
Siſters! hence with ſpurs of ſpeed;
Each her thund'ring falchion wield;
Each beſtride her ſable ſteed:
Hurry, hurry, to the field.

ODE VIII. THE DESCENT OF ODIN. FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.
To be found in Bartholinus, de cauſis contemnendae mortis; Hafniae, 1689, Quarto.

[49]
‘Upreis Odinn allda gauir, &c.’
UPROSE the king of Men with ſpeed,
And ſaddled ſtraight his cole-black ſteed;
Down the yawning ſteep he rode
That, leads to Hela's drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkneſs ſpy'd;
His ſhaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore diſtill'd,:
Hoarſe he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow and fangs that grin,
And long purſues with fruitleſs yell
The father of the pow'rful ſpell.
Onward ſtill his way he takes,
(The groaning earth beneath him ſhakes,)
Till full before his fearleſs eyes
The portals nine of hell ariſe.
Right againſt the eaſtern gate,
By the moſs grown pile he late,
Where long of yore to ſleep was laid
The duſt of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northen clime,
Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme,
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verſe that wakes the dead,
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breath'd a ſullen ſound.
PROPH. What call unknown, what charms preſume
To break the quiet of the tomb?
[50] Who thus afflicts my troubled ſprite,
And drags me from the realms of Night?
Long on theſe mould'ring bones have beat
The winter's ſnow, the ſummer's heat,
The drenching dews and driving rain!
Let me, let me ſleep again.
Who is he, with voice unbleſt,
That calls me from the bed of rest?
ODIN. A traveller, to thee unknown,
Is he that calls, a warrior's ſon.
Thou the deeds of light ſhalt know;
Tell me what is done below,
For whom yon' glitt'ring board is ſpread,
Dreſt for whom yon' golden bed?
PROPH. Mantling in the goblet ſee
The pure bev'rage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the ſhield of gold;
'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is giv'n;
Pain can reach the ſons of Heav'n!
Unwilling I my lips uncloſe;
Leave me, leave me to repoſe.
ODIN. Once again my call obey:
Propheteſs! ariſe, and ſay,
What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate?
PROPH. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom;
His brother ſends him to the tomb.
Now my weary lips I cloſe;
Leave me, leave me to repoſe.
ODIN. Propheteſs! my ſpell obey;
Once again ariſe, and ſay,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,
By whom ſhall Hoder's blood be ſpilt?
PROPH. In the caverns of the weſt,
By Odin's fierce embrace compreſt,
A wond'rous boy ſhall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er ſhall comb his raven-hair,
Nor waſh his viſage in the ſtream,
Nor ſee the ſun's departing beam,
[51] Till he on Hoder's corſe ſhall ſmile
Flaming on the fun'ral pile.
Now my weary lips I clos;e;
Leave me, leave me to repos;e.
ODIN. Yet a while my call obey:
Propheteſs! awake, and ſay,
What virgins theſe, in ſpeechleſs woe,
That bend to earth their ſolemn brow,
That their flaxen treſſes tear,
And ſnowy veils that float in air?
Tell me whence their ſorrows ros;e,
Then I leave thee to repos;e.
PROPH. Ha! no traveller art thou;
King of Men, I know thee now;
Mightieſt of a mighty line—
ODIN. NO boding maid of ſkill divine
Art thou, no propheteſs of good,
But mother of the giant-brood!
PROPH. Hie the hence, and boaſt at home.
That never ſhall enquirer come
To break my iron-ſleep again
Till Lok has burſt his tenfold chain;
Never till ſubſtantial Night
Has re-aſſum'd her ancient right,
Till, wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

ODE IX. THE DEATH OF HOEL. From the Welſh of Aneurim, ſtyled THE MONARCH OF THE BARDS.

[52]

He flouriſhed about the Time of Talieſſin, A. D. 570. This Ode is extracted from the Gododin. [See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71, 73.]

HAD I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage, and wild affright,
Upon Deïra's ſquadrons hurl'd,
To ruſh and ſweep them from the world!
Too, too ſecure in youthful pride,
By them my friend, my Hoel, dy'd,
Great Cian's ſon; of Madoc old,
He aſk'd no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in Nature's wealth array'd,
He aſk'd and had the lovely maid.
To Cattraeth's vale, in glitt'ring row,
Twice two hundred warriours go;
Ev'ry warriour's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath'd in many a golden link:
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape's ecſtatic juice.
Fluſh'd with mirth and hope they burn,
But none from Cattraeth's vale return,
Save Aëron brave and Conan ſtrong,
(Burſting through the bloody throng,)
And I, the meaneſt of them all,
That live to weep and ſing their fall.

ODE X. THE TRIUMPH OF OWEN. A FRAGMENT.

[53]

From Mr. Evans's Specimen of the Welſh Poetry, London, 1764, Quarto.

Advertiſement.

OWEN ſucceeded his father Griffin in the Principality of North Wales, A. D. 1120: this battle was near forty years afterwards.

OWEN's praiſe demands my ſong,
Owen ſwift and Owen ſtrong,
Faireſt flow'r of Rod'rick's ſtem,
Gwyneth's* ſhield and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded ſtores,
Nor on all profuſely pours;
Lord of ev'ry regal art,
Lib'ral hand and open heart.
Big with hoſts of mighty name,
Squadrons three againſt him came;
This the force of Eirin hiding;
Side by ſide as proudly riding
On her ſhadow long and gay
Lochlin plows the watry way;
There the Norman ſails afar,
Catch the winds and join the war;
Black and huge along they ſweep,
Burthens of the angry deep.
Dauntleſs on his native ſands
The Dragon ſon of Mona ſtands;
In glitt'ring arms and glory dreſt,
High he rears his ruby creſt;
There the thund'ring ſtrokes begin,
There the preſs and there the din:
[54] Talymalfra's rocky ſhore
Echoing to the battle's roar.
Check'd by the torrent-tide of blood,
Backward Meinai rolls his flood,
While, heap'd his maſter's feet around,
Proſtrate warriours gnaw the ground.
Where his glowing eye-balls turn
Thouſand banners round him burn;
Where he points his purple ſpear
Haſty, haſty rout is there;
Marking, with indignant eye,
Fear to ſtop and Shame to fly:
There Confuſion, Terrour's child,
Conflict fierce and Ruin wild,
Agony, that pants for breath,
Deſpair and Honourable Death.

ODE XI. FOR MUSICK.
Performed in the Senate-houſe, Cambridge, July, 1, 1769, at the Inſtallation of his Grace Auguſius-Henry-Fitzroy) Duke of Graſten, Chancellor of the univerſity.

I.
" Hence, avaunt! ('tis holy ground,)
" Comus and his midnight crew,
" And Ignorance with looks profound,
" And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
" Mad Sedition's cry profane,
" Servitude that hugs her chain,
" Nor in theſe conſecrated bow'rs,
" Let painted Flatt'ry hide her ſerpent train in flow'rs;
" Nor Envy baſe, nor creeping Gain,
" Dare the Muſe's walk to ſtain,
" While bright-ey'd Science watches round:
" Hence, away!. 'tis holy ground."
II.
From yonder realms of empyrean day
Burſts on my ear th' indignant lay;
[55] There fits the ſainted ſage, the bard divine,
The few whom Genius gave to ſhine
Thro' ev'ry unborn age and undiſcover'd clime.
Rapt in celeſtial tranſport they,
Yet hither oft' a glance from high
They ſend of tender ſympathy,
To bleſs the place where on their op'ning ſoul
Firſt the genuine ardour ſtole.
'Twas Milton ſtruck the deep-ton'd ſhell,
And, as the choral warblings round him ſwell,
Meek. Newton's ſelf bends from his ſtate ſublime,
And nods his hoary head, and liſtens to the rhyme.
III.
" Ye brown o'er-arching groves!
" That contemplation loves,
" Where willowy Camus lingers with delight,
" Oft' at the bluſh of dawn
" I trod your level lawn,
" Oft' woo'd the gleam of Cynthia ſilver-bright
" In cloiſters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
" With Freedom by my ſide and ſoft-ey'd Melancholy."
IV.
But hark! the portals ſound, and pacing forth,
With ſolemn ſteps and ſlow,
High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers, in long order go:
Great Edward, with the Lilies on his brow*
From haughty Gallia torn,
And ſad Chatillon, on her bridal morn,
That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,
[56] And Anjou's Heroine,§ and the paler Roſe,
The rival of her crown, and of her woes,
And either Henry there,
The murder'd ſaint, and the majeſtic lord,
That broke the bonds of Rome.
(The tears, their little triumphs o'er,
Their human paſſions now no more,
Save charity, that glows beyond the tomb,)
All that on Granta's fruitful plain
Rich ſtreams of regal bounty pour'd,
And bad thoſe awful fanes and turrets riſe
To hail their Fitzroy's feſtal morning come;
And thus they ſpeak in ſoft accord
The liquid language of the ſkies:
V.
" What is grandeur, what is power?
" Heavier toil, ſuperior pain,
" What the bright reward we gain?
" The grateful mem'ry of the good.
" Sweet is the breath of vernal ſhow'r,
" The bee's collected treaſures ſweet,
" Sweet Muſic's melting fall, but ſweeter yet
" The ſtill ſmall voice of Gratitude."
VI.
Foremoſt, and leaning from her golden cloud,
The venerable Marg'ret* ſee!
" Welcome, my noble ſon!" ſhe cries aloud,
" To this thy kindred train and me:
[57] " Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace
" A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace.
" Thy lib'ral heart, thy judging eye,
" The flow'r unheeded ſhall deſcry,
" And bid it round heav'n's altars ſhed
" The fragrance of its bluſhing head;
" Shali raiſe from earth the latent gem
" To glitter on the diadem.
VII.
" Lo! Granta waits to lead her blooming band;
" Not obvious, not obtruſive, ſhe
" No vulgar praiſe no venal incenſe flings,
" Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd
" Profane thy inborne royalty of mind:
" She reveres herſelf and thee.
" With modeſt pride to grace thy youthful brow
" The laureate wreath* that Cecil wore ſhe brings,
" And to thy juſt thy gentle hand
" Submits the faſces of her ſway;
" While ſpirits bleſt above, and men below,
" Join with glad voice the loud ſymphonious lay.
VIII.
" Thro' the wild waves, as they roar,
" With watchful eye, and dauntleſs mien,
" Thy ſteady courſe of honour keep,
" Nor fear the rock nor ſeek the ſhore:
" The ſtar of Brunſwick ſmiles ſerene,
" And gilds the horrors of the deep."

MISCELLANIES.

[]

A LONG STORY.

Advertiſement.

MR. GRAY'S Elegy, previous to its publication, was handed about in MS and had, amongſt other admirers, the Lady Cobham, who reſided in the manſionhouſe at Stoke-Pogeis. The performance inducing her to with far the Author' acquaintance, Lady Schaub and Miſs speed, then at her houſe, undertook to introduce her to it. Theſe two ladies waited upon the Author at his aunt's ſolitary habitation, where he at that time reſided, and not finding him at home, they left a card behind them. Mr. Gray, ſurpriſed at ſuch a compliment, returned the viſit; and as the beginning of this intercourſe bore ſome appearance of romance, he gave the humorous and lively account of it which the Long story contains.

IN Britain's iſle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building ſtands;*
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the pow'r of Fairy hands.
To raiſe the ceiling's fretted height,
Each pannel in atchievements clothing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And paſſages that lead to nothing.
Full oft within the ſpacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls:
The ſeal and maces danc'd before him.
His buſhy beard and ſhoe-ſtrings green,
His high-crown'd hat and ſatin doublet,
Mov'd the ſtout heart of England's queen,
Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.
[59]
What, in the very firſt beginning?
Shame of the verſifying tribe!
Your hiſt'ry whither are you ſpinning?
Can you do nothing but deſcribe?
A houſe there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning iſſues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,
But ruſtling in their ſilks and tiſſues.
The firſt came cap-à-pée from France,
Her conq'ring deſtiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye aſkance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.
The other Amazon kind Heav'n
Had arm'd with ſpirit, wit, and ſatire;
But Cobham had the poliſh giv'n,
And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.
To celebrate her eyes, her air—
Coarſe panegyrics would but teaſe her?
Meliſſa is her nom de guerre;
Alas! who would not wiſh to pleaſe her?
With bonnet blue and capuchine,
And aprons long, they hid their armour,
And veil'd their weapons bright and keen
In pity to the country farmer.
Fame, in the ſhape of Mr. P [...]t.
(By this time all the pariſh know it)
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked imp they call a Poet,
Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peaſants,
Dry'd up the cows and lam'd the deer,
And ſuck'd the eggs and kill the pheaſants.
[60]
My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She'd iſſue out her high commiſſion
To rid the manor of such vermine.
The heroines undertook the taſk;
Thro' lanes unknown, o'er ſtyles they ventur'd,
Rapp'd at the door, nor ſtay'd to aſk,
But bounce into the parlour enter'd.
The trembling family they daunt;
They flirt, they ſing, they laugh, they tattle,
Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,
And up ſtairs in a whirlwind rattle.
Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
Run hurry ſcurry round the floor,
And o'er the bed and teſter clamber;
Into the drawers and china pry,
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,
Or creas'd like dog's-ears in a folio.
On the firſt marching of the troops,
The Muſes, hopeleſs of his pardon,
Convey'd him underneath their hoops
To a ſmall cloſet in the garden.
So Rumour ſays; (who will believe?)
But that they leſt the door a jar,
Where ſafe, and laughing in his ſleeve,
He heard the diſtant din of war.
Short was his joy: he little knew
The pow'r of magic was no fable;
Out of the window wiſk they flew,
But left a ſpell upon the table.
The words too eager to unriddle,
The Poet felt a ſtrange diſorder;
Tranſparent birdlime form'd the middle,
And chains inviſible the border.
So cunning was the apparatus,
The pow'rful pot-hooks did ſo move him,
That will-he, nill-he, to the g [...]eat houſe
He went as if the devil drove him.
[61]
Yet on his way (no ſign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phoebus he preferr'd his caſe,
And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.
The godhead would have back'd his quarrel:
But with a bluſh, on recollection,
Own'd that his quiver and his laurel
'Gainſt four ſuch eyes were no protection.
The court was ſat, the culprit there;
Forth from their gloomy manſions creeping,
The Lady Janes and Joans repair,
And from the gallery ſtand peeping:
Such as in ſilence of the night
Come (ſweep) along ſome winding entry,
(Styack has often ſeen the ſight)
Or at the chapel-door ſtand ſentry;
In peaked hoods and mantles tarniſh'd,
Sour viſages enough to ſcare ye,
High dames of honour once that garniſh'd
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary!
The peereſs comes: the audience ſtare,
And doff their hats with due ſubmiſſion;
She curt'ſies, as ſhe takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.
The Bard with many an artful fib
Had in imagination fenc'd him,
Diſprov'd the arguments of Squib,
And all that Grooms§ could urge againſt him.
But ſoon his rhetoric forſook him,
When he the ſolemn hall had ſeen;
A ſudden fit of ague ſhook him;
He ſtood as mute as poor Macleane.
Yet ſomething he was heard to mutter,
" How in the park, beneath an old-tree,
" (Without deſign to hurt the butter,
" Or any malice to the poultry,)
[62]
" He once or twice had penn'd a ſonnet;
" Yet hop'd that he might ſave his bacon;
" Numbers would give their oaths upon it,
" He ne'er was for a conj'rer taken."
The ghoſtly prudes, with hagged* face,
Already had condemn'd the ſinner:
My Lady roſe, and with a grace—
She ſmil'd, and bid him come to dinner.
" Jeſu-Maria! Madam Bridget,
" Why, what can the Viſcounteſs mean!"
Cry'd the ſquare hoods, in woeful fidget;
" The times are alter'd quite and clean!
" Decorum's turn'd to mere civility!
" Her air and all her manners ſhew it;
" Commend me to her affability!
" Speak to a Commoner and Poet!"

[Here 500 ſtanzas are loſt.]

And ſo God ſave our noble king,
And guard us from long-winded lubbers,
That to eternity would ſing,
And keep my lady from her rubbers.

ELEGY. WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind ſlowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkneſs and to me.
Now fades the glimm'ring landſcape on the ſight,
And all the air a ſolemn ſtillneſs holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowſy tinklings lull the diſtant folds;
[63]
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of ſuch as, wand'ring near her ſecret bow'r,
Moleſt her ancient ſolitary reign.
Beneath thoſe rugged elms, that yew-tree's ſhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet ſleep.
The breezy call of incenſe-breathing Morn,
The ſwallow twitt'ring from the ſtraw-built ſhed,
The cock's ſhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more ſhall rouſe them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth ſhall burn,
Or buſy houſewife ply her ev'ning care;
No children run to liſp their ſire's return,
Or climb his knees the envy'd kiſs to ſhare.
Oft' did the harveſt to their ſickle yield,
Their furrow oft' the ſtubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath-their ſturdy ſtroke!
Let not Ambition mock their uſeful toil,
Their homely joys, and deſtiny obſcure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a diſdainful ſmile
The ſhort and ſimple annals of the poor.
The boaſt of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud! impute to theſe the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raiſe,
Where, thro' the long-drawn aiſle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem ſwells the note of praiſe.
Can ſtoried urn or animated buſt
Back to its manſion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the ſilent duſt,
Or Flatt'ry ſooth the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected ſpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celeſtial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have ſway'd,
Or wak'd to ecſtacy the living lyre.
[64]
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the ſpoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repreſs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the ſoul.
Full many a gem of pureſt ray ſerene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow'r is born to bluſh unſeen,
And waſte its ſweetneſs on the deſert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntleſs breaſt
The little tyrant of his fields withſtood,
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may reſt,
Some Cromwell, guiltleſs of his country's blood.
Th' applauſe of liſt'ning ſenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to deſpiſe,
To ſcatter plenty o'er a ſmiling land,
And read their hiſt'ry in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbad; nor circumſcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade thro' ſlaughter to a throne,
And ſhut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The ſtruggling pangs of conſcious Truth to hide,
To quench the bluſhes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the ſhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenſe kindled at the Muſe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ſtrife,*
Their ſober wiſhes never learn'd to ſtray;
Along the cool ſequeſter'd vale of life
They kept the noiſeleſs tenor of their way.
Yet e'en theſe bones, from inſult to protect,
Some frail memorial ſtill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and ſhapeleſs ſculpture deck'd,
Implores the paſſing trìbute of a ſigh.
Their name, their years, ſpelt by th' unletter'd Muſe,
The place of fame and elegy ſupply,
And many a holy text around ſhe ſtrews,
That teach the ruſtic moraliſt to die.
[65]
For who to dumb Forgetfulneſs a prey
This pleaſing anxious being e'er reſign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor caſt one longing ling'ring look behind?
On ſome fond breaſt the parting ſoul relies,
Some pious drops the cloſing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our aſhes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Doſt in thoſe 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 root ſo high,
" His liſtleſs length at noon-tide would he ſtretch,
" And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
" Hard by yon' wood, now ſmiling as in ſcorn,
" Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove;
" Now drooping, woeful wan! like one forlorn,
" Or craz'd with care, or croſs'd in hopeleſs love.
" One morn I miſs'd him on the cuſtom'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 church way-path we ſaw him borne:
" Approach, and read (for thou canſt read) the lay
" Grav'd on the ſtone beneath yon' aged thorn:"§

THE EPITAPH.

[66]
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 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.

EPITAPH ON MRS. MARY CLARKE

LO! where this ſilent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother, ſleeps;
A heart, within whole ſacred cell
The peaceful Virtues lov'd to dwell:
Affection warm, and faith ſincere,
And ſoft humanity were there.
In agony, in death, reſign'd,
She felt the wound ſhe left behind.
Her infant image here below
Sits ſmiling on a father's woe,
Whom what awaits while yet he ſtrays
Along the lonely vaie of days?
A pang, to ſecret ſorrow dear,
A ſigh, an unavailing tear,
Till time ſhall ev'ry grief remove
With life, with mem'ry, and with love.

STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A VIEW OF THE SEAT AND RUINS AT KINGSGATE, IN KENT, 1766.

[67]
OLD, and abandon'd by each venal friend,
Here H [...]d took, the pious reſolution,
To ſmuggle a few years, and ſtrive to mend
A broken character and conſtitution.
On this congenial ſpot he fix'd his choice;
Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighbouring ſand:
Here ſea-gulls ſcream, and cormorants rejoice,
And mariners, though ſhipwreck'd, fear to land.
Here reign the bluſtering north and blaſting eaſt,
No tree is heard to whiſper, bird to fing;
Yet nature could not furniſh cut the feaſt,
Art he invokes new terrors ſtill to bring.
Now mouldering fanes and battlements ariſe,
Turrets and arches nodding to their fall,
Unpeopled monaſteries delude our eyes,
And mimic deſolation covers all.
" Ah!" ſaid the ſighing peer, "had B [...]te been true,
Nor G [...]'s, nor B [...]d's promiſes been vain,
Far other ſcenes than this had grac'd our view,
And realiz'd the horrors which we feign.
" Purg'd by the ſword, and purify'd by fire,
Then had we ſeen proud London's hated walls:
Owls ſhould have hooted in St. Peter's choir,
And foxes ſtunk and litter'd in St. Paul's."

TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS.

THIRD in the labours of the diſk came on,
With ſturdy ſtep and ſlow, Hippomedon;
Artful and ſtrong he pois'd the well known weight,
By Phlegy as warn'd, and fir'd by Mueſtheus' fate,
That to avoid and this to emulate.
His vig'rous arm he try'd before he flung,
Brac'd all his nerves and ev'ry ſinew ſtrung,
[68] Then with a tempeſt's whirl and wary eye
Purſu'd his caſt, and hurl'd the orb on high;
The orb on high, tenacious of its courſe
True to the mighty arm that gave it force,
Far overleaps all bound, and joys to ſee
Its ancient lord ſecure of victory:
The theatre's green height and woody wall
Tremble ere it precipitates its fall;
The pond'rous maſs ſinks in the cleaving ground,
While vales and woods and echoing hills rebound.
As when from AEtna's ſmoaking ſummit broke,
The eyeleſs Cyclops heav'd the craggy rock,
Where Ocean frets beneath the daſhing oar,
And parting ſurges round the veſſel roar;
'Twas there he aim'd the meditated harm,
And ſcarce Ulyſſes 'ſcap'd his giant arm.
A tiger's pride the victor bore away,
With native ſpots and artful labour gay,
A ſhining border round the margin roll'd,
And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold.

GRAY OF HIMSELF.

TOO poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune,
He had not the method of making a fortune;
Could love and could hate, ſo was thought ſomething odd;
No very great wit, he believ'd in a God:
A poſt or a penſion he did not deſire,
But left church and ſtate to Charles Townſhend and Squire.

POEMATA.

[]

ELEGIAC VERSES Occaſioned by the Sight of the Plains where the Battle of Trebiae was fought.

QUA Trebie glaucas falices interſecat undâ,
Arvaque Romanis nobilitata malis.
Vilus adhuc amnis veteri de clade rubere,
Et ſuſpirantes ducere maeſtus aquas;
Maurorumque ala, et nigrae increbreſcere turmae,
Et pulſa Auſonidum ripa ſonare fugâ.

DESCRIPTION OF THE Sudden riſing of Monte Nuovo, near Puzzoli, and of the Deſtruction which attended it.*

NEC procul infelix fe tollit in aethera Gaurus,
Proſpiciens vitreum lugenti vertice pontum:
Triſtior ille diu, et veteri deſuetus olivâ
Gaurus, pampineaeque eheu jam neſcius umbrae;
Horrendi tam ſaeva premit vicinia montis,
Attonitumque urget latus, exuritque ferentem.
Nam fama eſt olim, media, dum rura ſilebant
Nocte, Deo victa, et molli perfuſa quiete,
Infremuiſſe aequor ponti auditamque per omnes
Latè tellurem ſurdùm immugire cavernas:
Quo ſonitu nemora aita tremunt; tremit excita tuto
Parthenopaea ſinu, flammantiſque ora Veſevi.
At ſubitò ſe aperire ſolum, vaſtoſque receſſus
Tandere ſub pedibus, nigrâque voragine fauces;
Pum piceas cinerum glomerare ſub aethere nubes
Vorticibus rapidis, ardentique imbre procellam.
Praecipites fugere ferae, perque avia longè
Sylvarum fugit paſtor, juga per deſerta,
Ah, miſer! increpitans ſaepè altâ voce per umbram
Nequicquam natos, creditque audire fequentes.
Atque ille excelſo rupis de vertice ſolus
[70] Reſpectans notaſque domos, et dulcia regna,
Nil uſquàm videt infelix praeter mare triſti
Lumine percuſſum, et pallentes ſulphure campos,
Fumumque, flammaſque, rotataque turbine ſaxa.
Quin ubi detonuit fragor, et lux reddita coelo;
Maeſtos confluere agricolas, paſſuque videres
Tandem iterum timido deſerta requirere tacta:
Sperantes, ſi forte oculis ſi forte darentur
Uxorum cineres, miſerorum veoſſa parentum
(Tenuia, ſed tanti ſaltem ſolatia luctus)
Unà colligere et juſtà componere in urnâ.
Uxorum nuſquam cineres, nuſquam oſſa parentum
(Spem miſeram!) aſſuetoſve Lares, Tautrura videbunt.
Quippe ubi planities campi diffuſa jacebat;
Mons novus: ille ſupercilium, frontemque favillâ
Incanum oſtentans, ambuſtis cautibus, aequor
Subjectum, ſtragemque ſuam, maeſta arva, minaci
Deſpicit imperio, ſoloque in littore regnat.
Hinc infame loci nomen, multoſque per annos
Immemor antiquae laudis, neſcire labores
Vomeris, et nullo tellus revireſcere cultu.
Non avium colles, non carmine matutino
Paſtorum reſonare; adeò undique dirus habebat
Informes latè horror agros ſaltuque vacantes.
Saepius et longé detorquens navita proram
Monſtrabat digito littus, ſaevaeque revolvens
Funera narrabat noctis, veteremque ruinam.
Montis adhuc facies manet hirta atque aſpera ſaxis:
Sed furor extinctus jamdudum, et flamma quievit,
Quae naſcenti aderat; ſeu forté bituminis atri
Defluxere olìm rivi, atque effoeta lacuna
Pabula ſufficere ardori, vireſque reruſat;
Sive in viſceribus meditans incendia jam nunc
(Horrendùm) arcanis glomerat genti eſſe futurae
Exitio, ſparſos tacituſque recolligit ignes.
Raro per clivos haud ſecius ordine vidi
Caneſcentem oleam: longum poſt tempus amicti
Vite virent tumulti; patriamque reviſere gaudens
Bacchus in aſſuetis tenerum caput exerit arvis
Vix tandem, infidoque audet ſe credere coelo.

A FAREWELL TO FLORENCE.

[71]
* * OH Faeſula amaena
Frigoribus juga, nec nimiùm ſpirantibus auris!
Alma quibus Tuſci Pallas decus Apennini
Eſſe dedit, glaucâque ſua caneſcere ſylvâ!
Non ego vos poſthàc Arni de valle videbo
Porticibus circum, & candenti cincta coronâ
Villarum longè nitido conſurgere dorſo,
Antiquamve AEdem, et veteres praeferre Cupreſſus
Mirabor, tectiſque ſuper pendentia tecta.

IMITATION OF AN Italian Sonnet of Signor Abbate Buondelmonte.

SPESSO Amor ſotto la forma
D'amiſtà ride, e s'aſconde:
Poi [...] miſchia, e ſi confonde
Con lo ſdegno, e col rancor.
In pietade ei ſi transforma;
Par traſtullo, e par diſpetto;
Ma nel fuo diverſo aſpetto
Sempr'egi, è l'iſteſſo Amor.
Luſit amicitiae interdam velatus amictu,
Et bene compoſita veſte fefellit Amor.
Mox irae aſſumſit cultus, faciemque minantem,
Inque odium,verſus, verſus et in lacrymas:
Ludentem ſuge, nec lacrymanti, aut crede furenti
Idem eſt diſſimili ſemper in ore Deus.

Appendix A CONTENTS.

[]
THE END.
Notes
*
Ode on Spring.
Ode on the Proſpect of Eton College.
§
Bard, an Ode.
Ode to Adverſity.
The Progreſs of Poetry.
The Fatal Siſters, an Ode.
*
Elegy in a Country Churchyard.
*
—a bank
O'er-canopy'd with lucious woodbine.
Shakeſp. Mid. Night's Dream.
*
‘Nare per aeſtatem liquidam. Virg. Georg. lib. 4
—ſporting with quick giance,
Shew to the ſun their wav'd coats dropt with gold.
Milton's Paradiſe Loſt, b. 7.
‘While inſects from the threſhold preach, &c. Mr. Green in the Grotto. Dodſley's Miſcellantes, vol. v. p. 161.
*
King Henry VI. founder of the College.
And bees their honey redolent of ſpring.
Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. Syſtem.
*
And Madneſs laughing in his ireful mood.
Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite.
*
Awake, my glory! awake, lute and harp.
David's Pſalms.
Pindar ſtyles his own poetry. with its muſical accompaniments, [...], Aeolian ſong, Aeolian ſtrings, the breath of the Aeolian flute. The ſubject and ſimile as uſual with Pindar, are here united. The various ſources of poetry, which gives life and luſtre to all it touches, are here deſcribed, as well in its quiet majeſtic progreſs, enriching every ſubject (otherwiſe dry and barren) with all the pomp of diction and luxuriant harmony of numbers, as in its more rapid and irreſiſtible courſe, when ſwoln and hurried away by the conflict of tumultuous paſſions.
Power of harmony to calm the turbulent paſſions of the ſoul. The thoughts are borrowed from the firſt Pythian of Pindar.
This is a weak imitation of ſome beautiful lines in the ſame ode.
Power of harmony to produce all the graces of motion in the body.
§
[...]
Homer, Od. O.
[...]
[...]
Phrynithus apud Athenaeum.
To compenſate the real or imaginary ills of Life, the Muſe was given to mankind by the ſame Providence that ſends the day by its cheerful preſence to diſpel the gloom and terrours of the night.
Or ſeen the morning's well-appointed ſtar
Come marching up the [...]
Cowley.
Extenſive influence of [...] the remoteſt and [...], and the virtues that [...] Welsh Fragments, the Lapland and [...]
§
[...] Virgil.
[...] Petrarch. Canz. 2
Progreſs of Poetry from Greece to Italy, and from Italy to England. Chaucer was not unacquainted with the writings of Dante or of Petrarch. The [...] and Sir Thomas Wyatt had travelled in Italy, and [...]. Milton improved on them: but [...].
Shakeſpeare.
Milton.
§
‘—flammantia moenia mundi. Lucretius.
For the ſpirit of the living creature was in the wheel. And above the firmament, that was over their heads, was the likeneſs of a throne, as the appearance of a ſapphire ſtone.—
This was the appearance of the glory of the Lord.
Ezekiel i. 20, 26, 28.
*
[...]
Homer [...] Odeſſey.
Meant to expreſs the ſtately march and ſounding energy of Dryden's rhymes.
‘Haſt thou cloathed his neck with thunder! Job.
§
‘Words that weep and tears that ſpeak. Cowley.
We have had in our language no other odes of the ſublime kind than that of Dryden on St. Cecilia's day; for Cowley, who had his merit, yet wanted judgment, ſtyle, and harmony, for ſuch a taſk. That of Pope is not worthy of ſo great a man. Mr. Maſon, indeed, of late days, has touched the true chords, and, with a maſterly hand, in ſome of his choruſſes—above all, in the laſt of Charactacus; ‘Hark! heard ye not yon footſtep dread? &c.’
[...]
Olymp. ii.
Pindar compares himſelf to that bird, and his enemies to ravens that croak and clamour in vain below, while it purſues its ſight regardleſs of their noiſe.
*
Mocking the air with colours idly ſpread.
Shakeſp. King John.
The hauberk was a texture of ſteel ringlets or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail that ſat cloſe to the body, and adapted itſelf to every motion.
‘The creſted adder's pride. Dryden's Indian Queen.
§
Snowdon was a name given by the Saxons to that mountainous track which the Welſh themſelves call Craigian-cryri: it included all the highlands of Caernarvonſhire and Merionethſhire, as far eaſt as the river Conway. R. Hygden, ſpeaking of the Caſtle of Conway, built by King Edward I. ſays, Ad ortum amnis Conway ad clivum montis Erery: and Matthew of Weſtminſter, (ad an. 1283) Apud Aberconway ad pedes montis Snowdoniae fecit erigi caſtrum forte.
Gilbert de Clare, ſurnamed the Red, Earl of Glouceſter and Hertford, ſon-in-law to King Edward.
Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. They both were Lords Marchers, whoſe lands lay on the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the King in this expedition.
*
The image was taken from a well-known picture of Raphael, repreſenting the Supreme Being in the viſion of Ezekiel. There are two of theſe paintings, both believed original; one at Florence, the other at Paris.
Shone like a meteor ſtreaming to the wind.
Milton's Paradiſe Loſt.
The ſhores of Caernarvonſhire, oppoſite to the iſle of Angleſey.
§
Camden and others obſerve, that eagles uſed annually to build their aerie among the rocks of Snowdon, which from thence (as ſome think) were named by the Welth, Craigian-eryri, or the Crags of the Eagles. At this day (I am told) the higheſt point of Snowdon is called The Eagle's Neſt. That bird is certainly no ſtranger to this iſland, as the Scots, and the people of Cumberland, Weſtmereland, &c. can teſtify: it even haſ built its neſt in the Peak of Derbyſhire. [See Willoughby's Ornithol. publiſhed by Ray.]
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That viſit my ſad heart—
Shakeſp. Julius Caeſar.
*
See the Norwegian Ode that follows.
Edward 11. cruelly butchered in Berkley Caſtle.
Iſabel of France, Edward II s adulterous queen.
§
Triumphs of Edward III. In France.
Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his laſt moments by his courtiers and his miſtreſs.
*
Edward the Black Prince, dead ſome time before his father.
Magnificence of Richard II's. reign. See Froiſſard, and other cotemporary writers.
Richard II. (as we are told by Archbiſhop Scroop, and the confederate Lords, in their manifeſto, by Thomas of Walſingham, and all the order writers) was ſtarved to death. The ſtory of his aſſaſſination by Sir Piers of Exon is of much later date.
§
Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaſter.
Henry VI. George Duke of Clarence, Edward V. Richard Duke of York, &c. believed to be murdered ſecretly in the Tower of London. The oldeſt part of that ſtructure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Caeſar.
Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic ſpirit, who ſtruggled hard to ſave her huſband and her crown.
**
Henry V.
††
Henry VI. very near being canonized. The line of Lancaſter had no right of inheritance to the crown.
*
The white and red Roſes, devices of York and Lancaſter.
The ſilver Boar was the badge of Richard III. whence he was uſually known in his own time by the name of The Boar.
Eleanor of Caſtile died a few years after the conqueſt of Wales. The heroic proof ſhe gave of her affection for her lord is well known. The monuments of his regret and ſorrow for the loſs of her are ſtill to be ſeen at Northampton, Gaddington, Waltham, and other places.
§
It was the common belief of the Welſh nation, that King Arthur was ſtill alive in Fairyland, and ſhould return again to reign over Britain.
Both Merlin and Talieſſin had propheſied that the Welſh ſhould regain their ſovereignty over this Iſland, which ſeemed to be accompliſhed in the Houſe of Tudor.
*
Speed, relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinſki, ambaſſador of Poland, ſays, ‘And thus ſhe, lion-like riſing, daunted the malapert orator no leſs with her ſtately port and majeſtical deporture, than with the tartneſs of her princelie cheeks.’
Talieſſin, chief of the Bards, flouriſhed in the 6th century. His works are ſtill preſerved, and his memory held in high veneration, among his countrymen.
Fierce wars and faithful loves ſhall moralize my ſong.
Spencer's Poem to The Fairy Queen.
Shakeſpeare.
§
Milton.
The ſucceſſion of Poets after Milton's time.
64
Note—The Valkyriur were female divinities, ſervants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name ſignifies chuſers of the Slain. They were mounted on ſwift horſes, with drawn ſwords in their hands, and in the throng of battle ſelected ſuch as were deſtined to ſlaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, (the Hall of Odin, or Paradiſe of the Brave,) where they attended the banquet, and ſerved the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.
*
How quick they wheel'd, and flying, behind them, ſhot
Sharp ſleet of arrowy ſhow'r—
Milt. Par. Reg.
The noiſe of battle hurtled in the air.
Shak. Jul Caeſ.
*
Ireland.
Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, conſisted of nine worlds, to which were devoten all ſuch as died of sickneſs, old age, or by any other means man in battle: over it preſided Hela, the goddeſs of Death.
Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when he ſhall break his bones; the human-race, the stars and ſun, ſhall diſappear, the earth ſink in the ſeas and fire conſume the ſkies: even Odin himſelf and his kindred deities ſhall periſh. For a farther explanation of this mythology, ſee Introduction a l' Hiſtoire de Danemarc, par Mons. Maliat, 1775. 4to; or rather a tranſlation of it publiſhed in 1770, and entitled Northern Antiquities, in which ſome miſtakes in the original are judiciouſly corrected.
*
North Wales.
Denmark.
The red Dragon is the device of Cadwalladar which all deſcendants bore on their banners.
*
Edward III. who added the Flour de lye of France to the arms of England. He founded Trinity-college.
Mary de Valentia, Counteſs of Pembroke, daughter of Gay de Chatillon, Comte de St. Paul in France, of whom tradition ſays, that her huſband, Audemarde de Valentie, Earl of Pembroke, was ſlain at a tournament on the day of him nuptials. She was the foundreſs of Pembroke College or Hall, under the name of A [...] M [...]iae de Valentia.
Elizabeth de Burg, Countleſs of Clare, was wife of John de Burg, ſon and heir of the Earl of Ulſter, and daughter of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Glouceſter, by John of Acres, daughter of Edward I. hence the [...] gives her the epithet of princely. She founded Clare-hall.
§
Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI. foundreſs of Queen's College. The Poet has celebrated her conjugal fidelity in a former ode.
Elizabeth Widville, wife of Henry IV. (hence called the paler Roſe, as being of the houſe of York.) She added to the foundation of Margaret of Anjou.
Henry VI. and VII. the former the founder of King's, the latter the greateſt benefactor to Trinity-college.
*
Counteſs of Richmond and Derby, the mother of Henry VII. foundreſs of St. John's and Chriſt's Colleges.
The Counteſs was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor; hence the application of this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claims deſcent from both theſe families
*
Lord Teaſurer Burleigh was Chancellor of the Univerſity in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
*
The manſion-houſe at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the poſſeſſion of Vifcounteſs Cobham. The ſtyle of building which we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably deſcribed, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth ſtanzas delineate the fantaſtic manners of her time with equal truth and humour. The houſe formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton.
Sir Chriſtopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful perſon and fine dancing.—Brawls were a ſort of a figure-dance then in vogue, and probably deemed as elegant as our modern cotillons, or ſtill more modern quadrilles.
The reader is already apprized who theſe ladies were; the two deſcriptions are prettily contraſted; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth ſtanza.
I have been told that this gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in he country, was much diſpleaſed at the liberty here taken with his name, yet ſurely without any great reaſon.
The Houſekeeoer.
The Steward.
§
Groom of the chamber.
A famous highwayman, hanged the week before.
*
Hagged, i. e. the face of a witch or hag. The epithet ha [...]ard has been ſometimes miſtaken as conveying the ſame idea, but it means a very different thing, viz. wild and farouche, and is taken from an [...] reclaimed hawk called an hagard.
Here the ſtory finishes; the exclamation of the ghoſts, which follows, is characteriſtic of the Spaniſh manners of the age when they are ſupoſed to have lived; and the 500 ſtanzas ſaid to be loſt, may be imagined to contain the remainder of their long winded [...]
—Iquilla di lontano
Che paia'l giorno pianger, che ſi muore.
Dante, Pur at. 1. 8.
*
This part of the Elegy differs from the firſt copy. The following ſtanza was excluded with the other alterations:
Hark! how the ſacred calm, that breathes around.
Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous paſſion ceaſe,
In ſtill ſmall accents whiſp'ring from the ground,
A grateful earneſt of eternal peace.
Ch'i veggio nel penſier, dolce mio fuoco,
Fredda una lingua, et due begil occhi chiufi
Rimaner croppo noi pien di ſaville.
Petrarch. Son. 169.
Mr. Gray forgot, when he diſplaced, by the preceding ſtanza, his beautiful deſcription of the evening haunt, the reference to it which he had here left:
Him have we ſeen the greenwood fide along,
While o'er the heath we hy'd, our labour done,
Of [...] as the woodlark pip'd her farewell ſong,
With wiſtful eyes purſue the ſetting ſun.
§
In the early editions the following lines were added, but the parentheſis was thougth too long;
There ſcatter'd oft', the earlieſt of the year,
By hands unſeen, are ſhow'rs of vi'lets found;
The redbreaſt loves to build and warble there,
And little footſteps lightly print the ground.
‘—Pavento ſpeme. Petrarch, Son. 114.
This lady, the wiſe of Dr. Clarke, phyſician at Epſom, died April 27th, 1757, and is buried in the church of Eeckenham, Kent.
*
See Sandy's Travels, B. iv. p. 275—278.
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