He saw, but blasted with excess of light, Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Two coursers of etherial race, With necks in thunder cloth'd and long resounding pace. III. 3. Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn; But ah! 'tis heard no more Oh! lyre divine! what daring spirit Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Yet shall he mount and keep his distant way Beneath the good how far-but far above the great. O D E. On the Spring. O! where the rosy-bosom'd hours, Disclose the long expecting flowers Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech Beside some water's rushy brink How vain the ardor of the crowd, Still is the toiling hand of Care, Yet hark! how thro' the peopled air The insect youth are on the wing, And float amid the liquid noon; To Contemplation's sober eye, 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, Poor Moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown, Thy sun is set, thy spring is goneWe frolic while 'tis May. OD E. On the Death of a favorite Cat, drowned in a Tub of 'TWAS Gold Fishes. 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, Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the tide, Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue The hapless nymph with wonder saw: She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize! Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, With haggard eye the poet stood; Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air,) 'Hark how each giant oak and desert cave I. 3. Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main ; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains! ye mourn in vain Modred, 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 sail, No more I weep. They do not sleep; 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, Mark the year, and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd, 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! 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, |