ODE III. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. “Ανθρωπος ἱκανὴ πρόφασις εἰς τὸ δυσυχῶν. MENANDER. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry 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 *King HENRY the Sixth, Founder of the College. Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers 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, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 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 Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave? To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some on earnest business 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, Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 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 murth'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, Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning infamy. The stings of Falshood 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 griesly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, 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 alike 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. |