ODE

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746

How sleep the brave who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blessed! When spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 5 She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
10 To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD

(First published in The Gentleman's Magazine, for October, 1749)

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

5 No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love,

10

No withered witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
15 With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

20

When howling winds and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved till life can charm no more,
And mourned till pity's self be dead.

Thomas Gray

1716-1771

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON

10

COLLEGE

(1747)

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her HENRY'S holy Shade;

5 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
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,
Ah, fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!

15 I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,

20

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,

25 Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed

30

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent

Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint, To sweeten liberty:

35 Some bold adventurers disdain

40

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:

45 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever-new,

50

And lively chear of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' 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:

55 Yet see how all around 'em wait
The Ministers of human fate,

60

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murth'rous band! Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vulturs of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that sculks behind;

65 Or pineing Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, 70 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.

75 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defil'd,

80

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:

85 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage:

90

Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his suff'rings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan,

The tender for another's pain;

Th' unfeeling for his own.

95 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,
100 'Tis folly to be wise.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

(1751)

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

5 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: