The insect-youth are on the wing, And float amid the liquid noon; To Contemplation's sober eye Alike the Busy and the Gay In Fortune's varying colors drest; Methinks I hear, in accents low, Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, His silver-winding way! Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seemed to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace,Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some, on earnest business bent, '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, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, 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 And black Misfortune's baleful train! These shall the fury Passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart; Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; Lo! in the vale of years beneath The painful family of Death, 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, To each his sufferings: all are men, The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, And happiness too swiftly flies? THE BARD. A PINDARIC ODE. "RUIN Seize thee, ruthless King! To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" He wound with toilsome march his long array. "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, ; Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, Avengers of their native land; With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, Mark the year, and mark the night, She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. "Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; "Fill high the sparkling bowl! The rich repast prepare! Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Lance to lance, and horse to horse? |