Fields that cool Ilissus laves, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. 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, 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: 85 90 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, Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car 95 100 Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, 105 With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding 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, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat 5 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky 10 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech Beside some water's rushy brink Still is the toiling hand of Care; To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly Shall end where they began. Thy joys no glittering female meets, 45 50 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 1 THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 2 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 3 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 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, 10 15 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 bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 8 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 9 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, - The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 10 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault 25 30 335 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? 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, 13 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 40 45 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 50 |