These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that sculks behind;

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
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice

And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
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 griesly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

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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.

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To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemn'd 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,
'Tis folly to be wise.

49.

50.

THE SHRUBBERY

O happy shades! to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quivering to the breeze,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if anything could please.
But fix'd unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shows the same sadness everywhere,

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And slights the season and the scene.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whose iron scourge and torturing hour
The bad affright, afflict the best!

Bound in thy adamantine chain

The proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

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When first thy Sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heavenly birth

And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore;

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,

And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,

Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.

Light they disperse, and with them go

The summer friend, the flattering foe;

By vain Prosperity received,

To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd

Immersed in rapturous thought profound,

And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,

And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Still on thy solemn steps attend :

Warm Charity, the general friend,

With Justice, to herself severe,

Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!

Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

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Nor circled with the vengeful band

(As by the impious thou art seen)

With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,

Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;

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The generous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,

Exact my own defects to scan,

What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.

T. Gray

45

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more:
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.

52.

53.

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
may record thy worth with honour due,

I

In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings :-

But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright-
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

TO THE SAME

The twentieth year is well-nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast ;
Ah would that this might be the last !
My Mary!

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W. Cowper

CCIV.