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Shenstone. The floking rooks, by Inftina's native rule,
This peaceful fcene for their afylum chofe.

A few fmall fpires, to Gothic fancy fair,
Amid the shades emerging ftruck the view;
'Twas here his youth refpir'd its earliest air;
'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu."

One favour'd fon engag'd his tend'rest care:
One pious youth his whole affection crown'd;
In his young breaft the virtues fprung fo fair,
Such charms difplay'd, fuch sweets diffus'd around.

But whilft gay tranfport in his face appears,
A noxious vapour clogs the poifon'd fky,
Blafts the fair crop-the fire is drown'd in tears,
And, fcarce furviving, fees his Cynthio die!

O'er the pale corfe we faw him gently bend;
Heart-chill'd with grief - "My thread," he cry'd,
is fpun!

,,If Heav'n had meant I fhould

my life extend, Heav'n had preferv'd my life's fupport, my fon.

Snatch'd in thy prime! alas! the ftroke were mild.
"Had my frail form obey'd the Fates' decree!
Blefs'd were my lot, o Cynthio! o my child!
Had Heav'n fo pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee."

Five fleepless nights he ftemm'd this tide of woes;
Five irksome funs he law, thro' tears, forlorn!
On his pale corfe the fixth fad morning rofe;
From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.

'Twas on those Downs, by Roman hofts annoy'd
Fought our bold fathers, ruftic, unrefin'd!
Freedom's plain fons, in martial cares employ'd!
They ting'd their bodies, but unmal k'd their mind,

'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race,
Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;

War's

War's deadly crimfon had forfook the place,
And Freedom fondly lov'd the chosen feat.

No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breast,
To fwell with empty founds a spotless name;
If folt'ring skies, the fun, the fhow'r were bleft,
Their bounty fpread, their fields' extent the fame.

Thofe fields, profufe of raiment, food, and fire,
They scorn'd to leffen, careless to extend;
Bade Luxury to lavish courts afpire,
And Avarice to city breafts defcend.

None to a virgin's mind preferr'd her dow'r,
To fire with vicious hopes a modeft heir:
The fire, in place of titles, wealth, or pow'r
Affign'd him virtue, and his lot was fair.

They spoke of Fortune as fome doubtful dame,
That fway'd the natives of a diftant sphere;
From Lucre's vagrant fons had learn'd her fame,
But never wifh'd to place her banners here.

Here youth's free fpirit, innocently gay,
Enjoy'd the most that Innocence can give;
Thofe wholesome fweets that border Virtue's way;
Those cooling fruits, that we may tafte and live.

Their board no ftrange ambiguous viand bore;
From their own ftreams their choicer fare they drew;
To lure the fcaly glutton to the shore

The fole deceit their artless bofom knew!

Sincere themselves, ah! too fecure to find
The common bofom, like their own, fincere!
'Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind;
'Tis her own poifon bids the viper fear.

Sketch'd on the lattice of th' adjacent fane
Their fuppliant bufts implore the reader's pray'r:

Shenstone.

Ah!

Shenstone., Ah! Gentle fouls! enjoy your blissful reign,
And let frail mortals claim your guardian care.

For fure to blisful realms the fouls are flown
That never flatter'd, injur'd, cenfur'd, ftrove;
The friends of fcience! mufic all their own;
'Mufic, the voice of Virtue and of Love!

The journeying peasant, thro' the fecret fhade
Heard their foft lyres engage his lift'ning ear.
And haply deem'd fome courteous angel play'd;
No angel play'd- but might with tranfport hear.

For thefe the founds that chafe unholy strife!
Solve Envy's charm, Ambition's wretch release
Raife him to fpurn the radiant ills of life,
To pity pomp, to be content with peace.

Farewell, pure spirits! vain the praise we give,
The praife you fought from lips angelic flows;
Farewell! the virtues which deferve to live
Deserve an ampler bliss than life bestows.

Laft of his race, Palemon, now no more,
The modeft merit of his line difplay'd;
The pious Hough Vigornia's mitte wore
Soft fleep the duft of each deserving shade,

Gray.

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Gray.

Nur durch einige wenige, aber in ihrer Art sehr meis fterhafte Gedichte erwarb sich Thomas Gray bei seiner Nas tion sehr großen Ruhm, ein Mann von vielem Geschmack und mannichfaltigen feinen Kenntnissen, geb. 1716; geft. 1771. Von ihm gilt, was Quintilian vom Persius sagt: Multum et verae gloriae, quamvis uno libro, meruit. Schon diese eins zige, mit Recht so allgemein bewunderte, so håufig überseßte, aber nie ganz erreichte, Elegie auf einen Dorfkirchhof würde immer ein äußerst rühmliches Denkmal seines dichtes rischen Talents, seines edeln und tiefen Gefühls bleiben. Selbst Dr. Johnson, dessen Urtheil über diesen Dichter ges wiß zu strenge und mit zu vieler kritischen Kälte abgefaßt ist, fühlte sich doch durch diese Elegie zu sehr erwärmt, that seiz ner Strenge nun Einhalt, und gestand, daß sie reich an Bildern sey, die einen Spiegel in jeder Seele finden, und an Gedanken und Empfindungen, die jede Bruft wiederhallt.

AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUN,
TRY-CHURCH YARD.

Gray.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The mepeying owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bower,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Be

Gray.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhades
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn
The fwallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built shed
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn
No more fhall roule them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to share.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle 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 obfcure,
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful fmile
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
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 Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raife,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing Anthem fwells the note of praise.

(

Can ftoried Urn or animated Buft

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

Per

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