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which he had succeeded, and from the concern of which he was anxious to relieve himself, was finally surmounted by means of his owu knowledge of law.

The local poems by which Gray has impressed a classical stamp upon Stoke are, The Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, The Long Story, both written in 1750, and his Ode to Eton College, written before, in the year 1742; in which year were also written the Ode to Spring, the Hymn to Adversity, and the Sonnet on the death of Mr. West, (the first certainly, and the two last probably,) at Stoke.

It was in the year 1780 that (Miss Speed, now) Countess de Viry enabled the lover of poetry to see in print the Rondeau, and another small amatory poem of Gray, called Thyrsis, by presenting them to the Rev. Mr. Leman, of Suffolk, while on a visit at her castle in Savoy. She died there in 1783.

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POSTHUMOUS

POEMS AND FRAGMENTS.

ODE

ON THE PLEASURES ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.

Left unfinished by Mr. Gray. With additions by

Mr. Mason, distinguished by inverted commas.

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Now the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She woos the tardy spring :
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground;
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green,
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,

Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance,

The birds his presence greet:

But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling extasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Rise, my soul! on wings of fire,

Rise the rapturous choir among ; Hark! 'tis nature strikes the lyre,

And leads the general song : “ Warm let the lyric transport flow, " Warm as the ray that bids it glow; “ And animates the vernal grove “ With health, with harmony, and love."

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,

The herd stood drooping by :
Their raptures now, that wildly flow,
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'Tis man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes,

Smiles past misfortune's brow

Soft reflection's hand can trace ;
And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw

A melancholy grace;
While hope prolongs our happier hour
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour,
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy pleasure leads,

See a kindred grief pursue ;
Behind the steps that misery treads,

Approaching comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastised by sabler tints of woe;
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch, that long has toss'd

On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,

And breathe and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.

Humble quiet builds her cell,

Near the source whence pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well,

And tastes it as it goes. • While' far below the 'madding' crowd “Rush headlong to the dangerous flood,' Where broad and turbulent it sweeps, * And’ perish in the boundless deeps.

Mark where indolence, and pride,

• Sooth'd by fiattery's tinkling sound,' Go, softly rolling, side by side,

Their dull but daily round :

• To these, if Hebe's self should bring
The purest cup from pleasure's spring,
Say, can they taste the flavour high
Of sober, simple, genuine joy ?

Mark ambition's march sublime

Up to power's meridian height;
While pale-eyed envy sees him climb,

And sickens at the sight.
Phantoms of danger, death, and dread,
Float hourly round ambition's head;
While spleen, within his rival's breast,
Sits brooding on her scorpion nest.

· Happier he, the peasant, far,

From the pangs of passion free,
That breathes the keen yet wholesome air

Of rugged penury.
He, when his morning task is done,
Can slumber in the noontide sun;
And hie him home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast, and calm repose.

· He, unconscious whence the bliss,

Feels, and owns in carols rude, That all the circling joys are his,

Of dear Vicissitude. From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful niglit; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.'

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