Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due in sad array

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Slow through the church-yard path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear,

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He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a Friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

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GRAY,

ODE ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expected flowers,
And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring:

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While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade,

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The panting herds repose:

Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,

Eager to taste the honeyd spring,

And float amid the liquid noon :

Some lightly o'er the current skim;
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Man;

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

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Alike the Busy and the Gay

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But flutter through life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours drest:

Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance,

Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low,

The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while 't is May.

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GRAY.

ODE

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her HENRY's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah happy rills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields beloved in vain!

King Henry the Sixth, founder of the College.

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10

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, (for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,)

While some on earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labours ply

The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Their's buxom health, of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:

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Or pining Love shall waste their youth,

Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high,

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