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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 Unkındness' 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,
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,

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.

?, Gray

CC
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,

And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn

While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley, musing, slow, They seek like me the secret shade,

But not, like me, to nourish woe! Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam ; These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come.

W. Cowper

CCI

HYMN TO ADVERSITI 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.

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,
Still on thy solemn steps attend :
Warm Charity, the general frienci,

With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head

Dread godless, lay thy chastening hand !
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Not 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;
Thy form benign, oh goddless, wear,

Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic train be there

To soften, not to wound my heart. 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:

7. Gray

CCII

THE SOLITUDE OF
ALEXANDER SELKIRK

I am monarch of all I survey ;
My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the sea
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude ! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech ;
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.
When I think of my own native land
In a moment I seem to be there ;
But alas ! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair ;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought !
Gives even affliction a grace
And reconciles man to his lot.

W. Cowper

CCIII

TO JLARY UNWIN

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
I may record thy worth with honour due,
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,
d 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.

W. Cowper

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