who filled the chair of St. Peter in his time ;-one (in short) who could have been a Leonardo, a Michael Angelo, a Titian, a Corregio, a Parmegiano, an Annibal, a Rubens, or any other when he pleased, but none of them could ever have been a Raphael. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College, THIS poem has been noticed in our preface, and in the introduction to the Long Story. It is full of thought, tenderness, and music, and should make the writer beloved by all persons of reflection, especially those who know what it is to visit the scenes of their schooldays. They may not all regard them in the same melancholy light; but the melancholy light will cross them, and then Gray's lines will fall in upon the recollection, at once like a bitter and a balm. And ye that from the stately brow Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among His silver-winding way. Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, 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 Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen Who foremost now delight to cleave The captive linnet which enthrall? To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some, on earnest business bent, Their murmuring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty, Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they run they look behind, Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, The tear forgot as soon as shed, And lively cheer, of vigor born; Alas, regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate, And black misfortune's baleful train ; Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart; Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter scorn a sacrifice, And grinning infamy; The stings of falsehood those shall try, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; Lo, in the vale of years beneath More hideous than their queen; This racks the joints, this fires the veins, Those in the deeper vitals rage : Lo, poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, To each his sufferings; all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, The 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.Where ignorance is bliss, No more. 'Tis folly to be wise. |