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“ Behold, and tremble, while thou view'st her

“ state “ Thron'd on the heights of Skiddaw: call thy

« art To build her such a throne; that art will feel “ How vain her best pretensions. - Trace her

“march “ Amid the purple craggs of Borrowdale; “ And try like those to pile thy range of rock “ In rude tumultuous chaos. See! she mounts “ Her Naiad car, and, down Lodore's dread cliff “ Falls many a fathom, like the headlong bard My fabling fancy plung'd in Conway's flood; “ Yet not like him to sink in endless night: “ For, on its boiling bosom, still she guides “ Her buoyant shell, and leads the wave along; “ Or spreads it broad, a river, or a lake, “ As suits her pleasure; will thy boldest song “ E’er brace the sinews of enervate art “ To such dread daring? will it ev'n direct “ Her hand to emulate those softer charms “ That deck the banks of Dove, or call to birth

“ The bare romantic craggs, and copses green, That sidelong grace her circuit, whence the

“ rills, “ Bright in their crystal purity, descend To meet their sparkling queen? around each

“ fount “ The hawthorns crowd, and knit their blossom'd

“ sprays “ To keep their sources sacred. Here, even here, “ Thy art, each active sinew stretch'd in vain, “ Would perish in its pride. Far rather thou “ Confess her scanty power, correct, controul, “ Tell her how far, nor farther, she may go; “ And rein with reason's curb fantastic taste.”

Yes, I will hear thee, dear lamented shade, And hold each dictate sacred. What remains Unsung shall so each leading rule select As if still guided by thy judgment sage ; While, as still modell’d to thy curious ear, Flow my melodious numbers; so shall praise, If aught of praise the verse I weave may claim, From just posterity reward my song.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

* * * * * * * * * Fair are the gardens of the Aonian mount,

And sweet those blooming flow'rs

Which paint the Maiden's bow'rs.
And clear the waters of the gurgling fount:

Swift they wind through chequer'd allies;

Huddling down to th’ open vallies ;

Where the quick ripple in the sunbeams plays, · Turning to endless forms each glance of twinkling

blaze.

O'er the gay scene th' enamour'd inmates roam :
And gather fresh ideas as they rise
From Nature's manifold supplies.

Alas! for whom!

Many a gleam of sprightly thought,

Many a sad and sable mood, Whether from dazzling lustre brought,

Or nurs’d by shades of darksome wood, Keep death-like silence on their native shore, Since he, that gave them speech, is heard no more,

Flown is the spirit of GRAY
Like common breath to mingle with the air :
Yet still those Goddesses peculiar care,

That breathe harmonious lay.
Retir'd to yonder grassy mound
In leaves of dusky hue encompassid round,

They bid their plaintive accents fill
The covert hollows of the bosom'd hill:

With liquid voice and magic hand

Calliope informs the band: Hush'd are the warblers of the grove, attentive

to the sound.

“ Soft and slow

“Let the melting measures flow, “ Nor lighter air disturb majestic woe.

“ And thou, sage Priestess [62]of our holy fire,

“ Who saw'st the Poet's flame expire,
“ Thy precious drops profusely shed

O'er his well-deserving head.
“ Thou nurtur’dst once a grateful throng,
“ When Milton pour'd the sweets of song

“On Lycidas sunk low [63].

“ Now wake that faithful lyre mute Dulness

“ reigns: “ Your echoes waft no more the friendly theme; “ Clogg'd with thick vapours from the neighb’ring

“ plains, “ Where old Cam hardly moves his sluggard

“ stream.

“ But when some public cause “ Claims festive song, or more melodious tear, .“ Discordant murmurs grate mine ear,

“ Ne'er modeld by Pierian laws,

[62] Cambridge University, where Gray died.

[63] In 1638 the University published a volume of poems to the memory of Mr. Edward King, Milton's Lycidas.

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