How well does mem'ry note the golden day, "Unfeen, unheard, beneath an hawthorn shade!" 'Twas there we met the mufes hail'd the hour; O! fince thofe days, when feience spread the feaft, Say has one genuine joy e'er warm'd my breast ? To thirst for praise his temperate youth forbore; Hither in manhood's prime he wifely fled From all that folly, all that pride approves ; To this foft fcene a tender partner led; This laurel fhade was witnefs to their loves. "Begone (he cry'd) ambition's air-drawn plan; "Hence with perplexing pomp's unwieldy wealth: "Let me not feem, but be the happy man, "Poffeft of love, of competence, and health.” Smiling he fpake, nor did the fates withstand; * Mufous, the firft Poem which the author published, written while he was a fcholar of St. College in Cambridge. How foon obedient Flora brought her store, Then to the fight he call'd yon ftately fpire, Hail, fylvan wonders, hail! and hail the hand Each envied happiness of scene and flade. Is there a hill whofe diftant azure bounds And, lo! in yonder path, 1 fpy my friend; Mild * Blefs'd fpirit, come! tho' pent in mortal mould, O come, a portion of thy blifs unfold, From folly's maze my wayward fleps reclaim. See the defcription of the Genius of the Wood in Milton's Arcades, For know by lot, from Jove I am the power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower; To nurfe the faplings tall, and curl the grove, With ringlets quaint, &c. Too long alas my inexperienc'd youth, Milled by flatt'ring fortune's fpecious tale, Has left the rural reign of peace and truth, The huddling brook, and cave, and whisp'ring vale. Won to the world, a candidate for praise, my But now 'ere cuftom binds his powerful chains, heart: Teach me, like thee, to mufe on nature's page, Of man, while warm'd with reafon's purer ray, When confcience was his law, and God his guide. This let me learn, and learning let me live The leffon o'er. From that great guide of truth O may my fuppliant foul the boon receive To tread thro' age the footsteps of thy youth. ΑΝ E L EGY Written in a COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. By Mr. GRAY. T HE curfew tells the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep. The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield, Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boat of heraldry, the pomp The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, Can ftoried urn or animated bust Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? |