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ACERONIA, 'Tis time we go, the sun is high advanc’d, And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baiæ.
My thought at him ; not the basilisk
More deadly to the sight, than is to me
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness.
I will not meet its poison. Let him feel
Before he sees nie.
Why then stays my sovereign,
Where he soon may-
Yes, I will be gonê, But not to Antium-all shall be confess'd, Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame Has spread among the crowd ; things that but whis
Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and rivetted
eyes in fearful ecstasy: No matter
What; so't be strange, and dreadful,-Sorceries,
Assassinations, poisonings-the deeper
My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude.
And you, ye manes of Ambition's victims,
Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts
Of the Syllani, doom'd to early death,
(Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes !)
If from the realms of night my voice
In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse,
Accept my vengeance. Tho' by me ye bled,
He was the cause. My love, my fears for him,
Dried the soft springs of pity in my heart,
And froze them up with deadly cruelty.
Yet if your injur'd shades demand my fate,
If murder cries for murder, blood for blood,
Let me not fall alone; but crush his pride,
And sink the traitor in his mother's ruin.
отно. . Thus far we're safe. Thanks to the rosy queen Of amorous thefts: And had her wanton son Lent us his wings, we could not have beguild With more elusive speed the dazzled sight Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely ; Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim'rous cloud That hangs on thy clear brow. So Helen look'd, So her white neck reclin'd, so was she borne By the young Trojan to his gilded bark With fond reluctance, yielding modesty, And oft reverted eye, as if she knew not Whether she fear'd, or wish'd to be pursued.
[This is supposed to have been written about the
year 1742, the time when Mr. Gray returned to Cambridge.]
HAIL, Horrors, hail! ye ever gloomy bowers,
Ye gothic fanes, and antiquated towers,
Where rushy Camus' slowly-winding flood
Perpetual draws his humid train of mud :
Glad I revisit thy neglected reign,
Oh take me to thy peaceful shade again.
Bụt chiefly thee, whose influence breath'd from
Augments the native darkness of the sky;
Ah, Ignorance ! soft salutary Power!
Prostrate with filial reverence I adore.
Thrice hath Hyperion roll'd his annual race,
Since weeping I forsook thy fond embrace.
Oh say, successful dost thou still oppose
Thy leaden ægis 'gainst our ancient foes ?
Still stretch, tenacious of thy right divine,
The massy sceptre o’er thy slumb’ring line?
And dews Lethean thro' the land dispense
To steep in slumbers each benighted sense?
If any spark of Wit's delusive ray
Break out, and flash a momentary day,
With damp, cold touch forbid it to aspire,
And huddle up in fogs the dangerous fire.
Oh say—she hears me not, but, careless grown,
Lethargic nods upon her ebon throne.
Goddess ! awake, arise, alas my fears !
Can powers immortal feel the force of years ?
Not thus of old, with ensigns wide unfurld,
She rode triumphant o'er the vanquish'd world;
Fierce nations own'd her unresisted might,
And all was Ignorance and all was Night.
Oh! sacred Age ! Oh! Times for ever lost !
(The Schoolman's glory, and the Churchman's boast.)
For ever gone-yet still to Fancy new,
Her rapid wings the transient scene pursue,
And bring the buried ages back to view.
High on her car, behold the Grandam ride Like old Sesostris with barbaric pride;