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« When Milton pour'd the sweets of song

“ On Lycidas sunk low[63]. 1 « Now wake that faithful lyre mute Dulness

“ reigns : “ Your echoes waft no more the friendly theme; “ Clogg'd with thick vapours from the neighb'ring

« plains,
“ Where old Cam hardly moves his sluggard

6 stream.
“ But when some public cause
“ Claims festive song, or more melodious tear,
“ Discordant murmurs grate mine ear.

" Ne'er modeld by Pierian laws,
.66 Then idly glares full many a motley toy,
“ Anacreontic grief, and creeping strains of joy.

“ Far other modes were thine,

“ Victim of hasty fate, “ Whom now the powers of melody deplore;

“Whether in lofty state[64]

“ Thou bad'st thy train divine “ Of raptures on Pindaric pinions soar:

1637In 1638 the University published a volume of poems to the memory of Mr. Edward King, Milton's Lycidas.

[64] See Gray’s Pindaric Odes.

“ Or hoping from thyself to fly ...
“ To childhood's careless scenes(65),
Thou sen 'st a warm refreshing eye

6 Ou Nature's faded greens:
~ Or when thy calm and steadfast mind

“ With philosophic reach profound “ Self pleasing vanities resign'd,

“ Fond of the look, that loves the ground[66] ; “ Discern'd by Reason's equal light, “ How gaudy Fortune cheats the sight;

“ While the coarse maid, inur'd to pain, « Supports the lab’ring heart, and Virtue's happiest

“ reign. “ But most the music of thy plaintive moan[67] .

“ With lengthen’d note detains the list’ning ear, “ As lost in thought thou wander'st all alone

“Where spirits hover round their mansions drear.

“ By Contemplation's eye serenely view'd,

“ Each lowly object wears an awful mien : “ 'Tis our own blindness veils the latent good :

“ The works of Nature need but to be seen.

[65] Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College.
[66] Hymn to Adversity.
[67] Church-yard Elegy.

“ Thou saw'st her beaming from the hamlet-sires “ Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's

« shade ; “ Where now, still faithful to their wonted fires[68],

“ Thy own dear ashes are for ever laid.

[68] Gray was buried at Stoke, the scene of the Elegy. i





WHERE sleeps the Bard who grac'd Museus' hearse

With fragrant trophies by the Muses wove ! Shall Gray's cold urn in vain demand the verse,

Oh! can his Mason fail in plaintive love? No; with the Nine inwrapp'd in social woe,

His lyre unstrung, sad vigil he must keep ; With them he mourns, with them his eyes o'erflow,

For such a Bard immortal Maids can weep.
Their early pupil in the heav'nly lore

Of sacred poesy and moral sɔng,
They taught the youth on eagle wing to soar,

And bore him thro’ aërial heights along.
Fancy obedient to their dread command,

With brillant Genius, marshall’d forth his way; They lur'd his steps to Cambria's once-fam'd land,

And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay.

But vain the magic lay., the warbling lyre,

Imperious Death! from thy fell grasp to save; He knew, and told it with a Poet's fire,

“ The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.”
And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing mind

Mourn’d o’er the simple Rustic's turfy cell,
To strew his tomb no grateful Mourner find,

No Village swain to ring one parting knell ?
Yes, honour'd shade! the fringed brook I'll trace,

Green rushes culling thy dank grave to strew;
With mountain flow’rs I'll deck the hallow'd place,

And fence it round with osiers mix'd with yew.

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