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Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Maeander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish !
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around;
Every shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

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They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.

III. 1. Strophe

Far from the sun and summer-gale

In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To him the mighty Mother did unveil

Her awful face: the dauntless child

Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.

"This pencil take" (she said), "whose colours clear

Richly paint the vernal year:

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Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!

This can unlock the gates of joy;

Of horror that, and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."

III. 2. Antistrophe

Nor second He, that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy

The secrets of the abyss to spy:

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:

The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze

Where angels tremble while they gaze,

He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car

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Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race,

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With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding

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Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:

Beneath the Good how far- but far above the Great.

ODE ON THE SPRING

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers

And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat

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Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of Spring:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,

Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade,

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

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To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Man :

And they that creep, and they that fly

Shall end where they began.

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Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-
We frolic while 't is May.

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ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

1

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

2

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

3

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

4

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

5

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

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No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20

6

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

7

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

8

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

9

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:

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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

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Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The peeling anthem swells the note of praise.

11

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

12

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to extasy the living lyre:

13

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page

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Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 50

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