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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
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.
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
O'er the gay scene th' enamour'd inmates roam :
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
That breathe harmonious lay.
They bid their plaintive accents fill
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 of our holy fire,
“ Who saw'st the Poet's flame expire,
“ O'er his well-deserving head.
“On Lycidas sunk low .
“ 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
“ But when some public cause “ Claims festive song, or more melodious tear, .“ Discordant murmurs grate mine ear,
“ Ne'er modeld by Pierian laws,
 Cambridge University, where Gray died.
 In 1638 the University published a volume of poems to the memory of Mr. Edward King, Milton's Lycidas.