Black and huge along they sweep, Burthens of the angry deep. Dauntless on his native sands The dragon-son of Mona stands; In glittering arms and glory drest, High he rears his ruby crest. There the thundering strokes begin, There the press, and there the din; Talymalfra's rocky shore Echoing to the battle's roar, Where his glowing eye-balls turn, Thousand banners round him burn. Where he points his purple spear, Hasty, hasty rout is there, Marking with indignant eye Fear to stop, and shame to fly. There Confusion, Terrour's child, Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild, Agony, that pants for breath, Despair and honourable Death. EPITAPH, AT BECKENHAM, ON MRS. CLARKE 7. Lo! where this silent marble weeps, Whom what awaits, while yet he strays Now mouldering fanes and battlements arise, Turrets and arches nodding to their fall, Unpeopled monasteries delude our eyes, And mimic desolation covers all. "Ah!" said the sighing peer, "had B-te been true, Nor G's, nor B-d's promises been vain, Far other scenes than this had grac'd our view, And realis'd the horrours which we feign. "Purg'd by the sword, and purify'd by fire, ODE FOR MUSIC. PERFORMED IN THE SENATE-HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE, JULY "HENCE, avaunt, ('tis holy ground) Nor in these consecrated bowers Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in flowers. Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain, Dare the Muse's walk to stain, While bright-ey'd Science watches round: From yonder realms of empyrean day Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay: There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, The few, whom genius gave to shine Through every unborn age and undiscover'd clime. Yet hither oft a glance from high To bless the place, where on their opening soul "Twas Milton struck the deep-ton'd shell, "Ye brown o'er-arching groves, That Contemplation loves, Where willowy Camus lingers with delight! Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth High potentates and dames of royal birth, Edward the Third; who added the fleur de lys of France to the arms of England. He founded Trinity College. From haughty Gallia torn, And sad Chatillon 2, on her bridal morn The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord, And bade these awful fanes and turrets rise, "What is grandeur, what is power? Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud 2 Mary de Valentia, countess of Pembroke, daughter of Guy de Chatillon, comte de St. Paul in France: of whom tradition says, that her husband, Audemar de Valentia, earl of Pembroke, was slain at a tournament on the day of his nuptials. She was the foundress of Pembroke College or Hall, under the name of Aula Mariæ de Valentia. 3 Elizabeth de Burg, countess of Clare, was wife of John de Burg, son and heir of the earl of Ulster, and daughter of Gilbert de Clare, earl of Gloucester, by Joan of Acres, daughter of Edward the First. Hence the poet gives her the epithet of princely. She founded Clare Hall. 4 Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry the Sixth, foundress of Queen's College. The poet has celebrated her conjugal fidelity in a former ode. 5 Elizabeth Widville, wife of Edward the Fourth (hence called the paler rose, as being of the house of York). She added to the foundation of Margaret of Anjou. "Henry the Sixth and Eighth, The former the founder of King's, the latter the greatest benefactor to Trinity College. 7 Countess of Richmond and Derby; the mother of Henry the Seventh, foundress of St. John's and Christ's Colleges. 8 The countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor; hence the application of this line to the duke of Grafton, who claims descent from both these families. Shall raise from Earth the latent gem, "Lo, Granta waits to lead her blooming band, Not obvious, not obtrusive, she No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings; She reveres herself and thee. With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow While spirits blest above and men below Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay. A LONG STORY1. IN Britain's isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of building stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ'd the power of fairy hands 9 Lord treasurer Burleigh was chancellor of the. university, in the reign of queen Elizabeth. I When Mr. Gray had put his last hand to the celebrated Elegy in the Country Church-yard, he communicated it to his friend Mr. Walpole, whose good taste was too much charmed with it to suffer him to withhold the sight of it from his acquaintance; accordingly it was shown about for some time in manuscript, and received with all the applause it so justly merited. Amongst the rest of the fashionable world, for to those only it was at present communicated, lady Cobham, who now lived at the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogis, had read and admired it. She wished to be acquainted with the author; accordingly her relation, miss Speed, and lady Schaub, then at her house, undertook to bring this about by making him the first visit. He happened to be from home when the ladies arrived at his aunt's solitary mansion; and, when he returned, was surpris'd to find, written on one of his papers in the parlour where he usually read, the following note: "Lady Schaub's compliments to Mr. Gray; she is sorry not to have found him at home, to tell him that lady Brown is very well." This necessarily obliged him to return the visit, and soon after induced him to compose a ludicrous account of this little adventure, for the amusement of the ladies in question. He wrote it in ballad measure, and entitled it a Long Story: when it was handed about in manuscript, nothing could be more various than the opinions concerning it; by some it was thought a masterpiece of original humour, by others a wild and fantastic farrago; and when it was published, the sentiments of good judges were equally divided about it. See Mr. Mason's Memoirs, vol. iii. p. 125. To raise the ceiling's fretted height, And passages, that lead to nothing. Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave lord-keeper led the brawls; The seal and maces danc'd before him. His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! A house there is (and that's enough) But rustling in their silks and tissues. The first came cap-a-pee from France, The other Amazon kind Heaven Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire: But Cobham had the polish given, And tipp'd her arrow with good-nature. To celebrate her eyes, her air Coarse panegyrics would but tease her. Melissa is her nom de guerre. Alas, who would not wish to please her! With bonnet blue and capuchine, And aprons long they hid their armour, And veil'd their weapons bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer. Fame, in the shape of Mr. P-ts, (By this time all the parish know it) Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd A wicked imp they called a poet: 2 * The mansion-house at Stoke-Pogis, then in the possession of viscountess Cobham. The style of building, which we now call queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton. M. 3 Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing. G. Brawls were a sort of figure-dance, then in Vogue, and probably deemed as elegant as our modern cotillions, or still more modern quadrilles. M. Who prowl'd the country far and near, Swore by her coronet and ermine, The heroines undertook the task, Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rap'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter'd. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. Each hole and cupboard they explore, Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurryskurry round the floor, And o'er the bed and tester clamber; Into the drawers and china pry, Or creas'd, like dog's-ears, in a folio. On the first marching of the troops The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey'd him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden. So Rumour says: (who will, believe.) But that they left the door a-jar, Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war. Short was his joy. He little knew The power of Magic was no fable; Out of the window, wisk, they flew, But left a spell upon the table. The words too eager to unriddle, The poet felt a strange disorder: Transparent bird-lime form'd the middle, And chains invisible the border. So cunning was the apparatus, The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house He went, as if the Devil drove him. Yet on his way (no sign of grace And begg'd his aid that dreadful day. The godhead would have back'd his quarrel; 'Gainst four such eyes, were no protection. 4 The reader is already apprised who these ladies were; the two descriptions are prettily contrasted; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to lady Cobham in the eighth stanza. M. 'I have been told that this gentleman, a neigh-reason. bour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name; yet, surely, without any great M. |