As is without a verdant shade a fountain, Ne'er think of pleasure, heart-eyes, shun the sun, DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN. Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, Her Henry's holy shade; And ye that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among, 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 A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen Who foremost now delight to cleave 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, Gay hope is their's-by fancy fed, Wild wit, invention ever-new, And lively cheer of vigour born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, 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, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo! in the vale of years beneath A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age. To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate? Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies. Thought would destroy their paradise: No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise. GRAY. Dirge in Cymbeline. SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring No wailing ghost shall dare appear, And melting virgins own their love. The red-breast oft at evening hours In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; The tender thought on thee shall dwell. For thee the tear be duly shed; And mourned, till pity's self be dead. COLLINS. |