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By thee attended, pensive would he stray,
Through life's new seas the little bark to steer;
Thoughtless he spies no furious tempest near,
 Ye fiends who rankle in the human heart, Delight in woe, and triumph in our tears,
Your dreadful reign :
'The snakes that twine about thy head
Again their frothy poison shed ;
Her threatening rage beguile?
To happier seats is fled !
(60] Hymn to Adversity.
Now seated by his Thracian sire,
At the full feast of mighty Jove To heavenly themes attunes his lyre,
And fills with harmony the realms above!
THE MEMORY OF MR. GRAY,
EXTRACTED FROM THE THIRD BOOK OF
MASON's “ ENGLISH GARDEN.”
CLOS'D is that curious ear, by death's cold hand,
Mr. Gray died July 31st, 1771. This book was begun a few months after. The three following lines
Or fix this votive tablet, fair inscrib'd
Oft, 'smiling as in scorn,' oft would he cry, “ Why waste thy numbers on a trivial art, « That ill can mimic even the humblest charms “ Of all-majestic Nature ?" at the word His eye
would glisten, and his accents glow With all the Poet's frenzy, “Sov'reign queen! « Behold, and tremble, while thou view'st her state « Thron'd on the heights of Skiddaw : call thy art
allude to a rustic alcove the author was then building in his garden, in which he placed a medallion of his friend, and an urn; a lyre over the entrance with the motto from Pindar, which Mr. Gray had prefixt to his Odes, and under it, on a tablet, this stanza, taken from the first edition of his Elegy written in a Country Church-yard.
Here scatter'd oft, the loveliest of the year,
* To build her such a throne ; that art will feel « How'vain her best pretensions. Trace her march “ Amid the purple craggs of Borrowdale ; “ And try like those to pile thy range of rock “ In rude tumultuous chaos. See! she mounts “ Her Naiad car, and, down Lodore's dread cliff “ Falls many a fathom, like the headlong bard “ My fabling fancy plung'd in Conway's flood; 6 Yet not like him to sink in endless night: “ For, on its boiling bosom, still she guides “ Her buoyant shell, and leads the wave along; “ Or spreads it broad, a river, or a lake, “ As suits her pleasure; will thy boldest song « E'er brace the sinews of enervate art “ To such dread daring? will it ev'n direct “ Her hand to emulate those softer charms " That deck the banks of Dove, or call to birth " The bare romantic craggs, and copses green, “ That sidelong grace her circuit, whence the rills, “ Bright in their crystal purity, descend « To meet their sparkling queen? around each fount “ The hawthorns crowd, and knit their blossom'd
sprays “ To keep their sources sacred. Here, even here, « Thy art, each active sinew stretch'd in vain, “ Would perish in its pride. Far rather thou