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The gaudy train, who wait on Spring ,
Ting'd with the pomp of vernal pride,
And idly sport on Thames's side,
Ha! what forms, with port sublime ,
High above Misfortune's flood?
They seize their harps, they strike the lyre,
 Ode on Spring.
In pomp of state, 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 Cambria’s fatal day, By rapture's blaze impell’d, they swell the artless
But ah! in vain they strive to sooth,
With gentle arts, the tort'ring hours;
Her baleful gifts profusely pours.
Behold she comes, the fiend forlorn,
Array'd in Horror's settled gloom;
And triumphs in th' infernal doom.
 Hymn to Adversity.
No more the soft Æolian flute 
Breathes thro' the heart the melting strain; The powers of Harmony are mute,
And leave the once-delightful plain; With heavy wing, I see them beat the air, Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless Despair.
Yet stay, O! stay, celestial pow'rs,
And with a hand of kind regard,
Destructive on the fav’rite bard;
Hark the Fatal Sisters  join,
And with Horror's mutt'ring sounds, Weave the tissue of his line,
While the dreadful spell resounds.
 The Progress of Poesy,
 The Fatal Sisters, an Ode.
“ Hail, ye midnight sisters, hail,
“ Drive the shuttle swift along;
6 O’er the glory of the land,
« O’er the innocent and gay, 6 O’er the Muse's tuneful band
• Weave the fun’ral web of Gray.”
'Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of pain,
With ruthless fury and corrosive force, Racks every joint, and seizes every vein:
He sinks, he groans, he falls 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 tall oaks, when boist'rous storms as
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 tolls its parting knell, With solemn pause yon Church-yard's gloom
survey; While Sorrow's sighs, and tears of Pity tell,
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.
 Elegy in a Country Church-Yard.