SPRING From ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE N THOMAS GRAY OW the golden morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, With vermeil cheek and whisper soft The sleeping fragrance from the ground, Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: And lessening from the dazzled sight, THE SCHOOLMASTER From THE DESERTED VILLAGE OLIVER GOLDSMITH ESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew: Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew, 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher, too; Lands he could measure, times and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the parson owned his skill; For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged aroundAnd still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. THE CRICKET WILLIAM COWPER ITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Pay me for thy warm retreat Such a strain as I can give. Thus thy praise shall be expressed, And the mouse with curious snout, Thou hast all thy heart's desire. Though in voice and shape they be Thou surpassest, happier far, THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM A WILLIAM COWPER NIGHTINGALE that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, And found a supper somewhere else. THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE WILLIAM COWPER OLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She ran upon no rock. |