Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. Nor second he, that rode sublime He passed the flaming bounds of space and time: Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with exccess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. The Ode to Eton College,' the 'Ode to Adversity,' and the far-famed 'Elegy,' present the same careful and elaborate finish which characterize his more elevated strains; but the thoughts and imagery are far more simple, natural, and touching. A train of moral feelings, and solemn and affecting associations, is presented to the mind, in connection with beautiful natural scenery, and objects of real life. The 'Ode to Adversity,' and the 'Elegy' follow: VOL. II.-Y ODE TO ADVERSITY. Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Bound in thy adamantine chain, The proud are taught to taste of pain, With pangs unfelt before, unpitied, and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learned 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 arrayed, Immersed in rapturous thought profound, 338 And melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice, and threatening mien, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. Thy form benign, oh goddess! wear, To soften, not to wound, my heart. What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind: The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Hard by yon wood, now smilling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 1 Nor up the lawn, not at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) 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. Gray's letters are easy, flowing, and beautiful; and his descriptions of the lake scenery of Cumberland, and of the mountain scenery of Scotland and Wales, are highly graphic: they do not, however, call for farther notice. WILLIAM COLLINS, whose history is brief but painful, and whose poems are as limited in number, and finished in execution, as those of Gray, was the son of a respectable hatter, in Chichester, and was born on Christmas day, 1720. When in the thirteenth year of his age he entered Winchester school, and thence passed to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he greatly distinguished himself for his scholarship, and took his bachelor's degree. While at college he published his Oriental Eclogues, which, to the disgrace of the university, and the literary public, were entirely neglected. He soon after quitted Oxford, and repaired to London, as a literary adventurer. He arrived in London, in 1744, and two years afterwards published his Odes, which, for some unaccountable reason, failed to attract public attention. Though Collins's learning was extensive, yet he wanted steadiness of purpose and business application; and he therefore allowed himself to sink under this disappointment, and to become more indolent and dissipated than ever. The fine promise of his youth, his mental ardor and his ambition, all melted away under this baneful and depressing influence. The death of Thomson, whom he seems to have known and loved, occurred just at this critical period in Collins's life, and once again he strung his lyre with poetical enthusiasm. The following Ode, which the occasion elicited, is unquestionably one of the finest elegiac poems in the language. The scene is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond : : In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave! In yon deep bed of whispering reeds The maids and youths shall linger here, To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. |