Thy precious drops profusely shed Thou nurtur'dst once a grateful throng, When Milton pour'd the sweets of song "Now wake that faithful lyre-mute Dulness reigns: But when some public cause Claims festive song, or more melodious tear, Ne'er model'd by Pierian laws, Then idly glares full many a motley toy, "Far other modes were thine, Victim of hasty fate, Whom now the powers of melody deplore; Thou bad'st thy train divine To childhood's careless scenes,‡ Fond of the look, that loves the ground;§ Discern'd by Reason's equal light, How gaudy Fortune cheats the sight; While the coarse maid, inured to pain, Supports the lab'ring heart, and Virtue's happiest reign. "But most the music of thy plaintive moan || As lost in thought thou wander'st all alone * In 1638 the University published a volume of poems to the memory of Mr. Edward King, Milton's Lycidas. + See Gray's Pindaric Odes. Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College. § Hymn to Adversity. 66 By Contemplation's eye serenely view'd, "Thou saw'st her beaming from the hamlet-sires STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY. BY A LADY. WHERE sleeps the Bard who graced Museus' hearse No; with the Nine inwrapp'd in social woe, Of sacred poesy and moral song, They taught the youth on eagle wing to soar, Fancy, obedient to their dread command, With brilliant genius, marshall'd forth his way; They lured his steps to Cambria's once-famed land, And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay. But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre, "The paths of Glory lead but to the grave." No Village Swain to ring one parting knell ? Yes, honour'd shade! the fringed brook I'll trace, Green rushes culling thy dank grave to strew; With mountain flow'rs I'll deck the hallow'd place, And fence it round with osiers mix'd with yew. THE TEARS OF GENIUS:-AN ODE. BY MR. TAITE. On Cam's fair banks, where Learning's hallow'd fame Where oft the Muse has led the favourite swain, Where deadly cypress, mix'd with mournful yew, The bloom of youth, the majesty of years, In her fair hand a silver harp she bore, Whose magic notes, soft warbling from the string, By grief impell'd, I heard her heave a sigh, While thus the rapid strain resounded through the sky; Haste, ye sister powers of song, Where the river rolls along, Where, indulging mirthful pleasures, Where your gently-flowing numbers, For graver strains prepare the plaintive lyre, In Transport's radiant garments drest, The gaudy train, who wait on Spring*, Tinged with the pomp of vernal pride, And idly sport on Thames's side, With cool regard their various arts employ, Nor rouse the drooping mind, nor give the praise of joy. Ha! what forms, with port sublime,+ Glide along in sullen mood, High above Misfortune's flood? They seize their harps, they strike the lyre, With rapid hand, with freedom's fire. And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains resound. In pomp of state, behold they wait, With arms outstretch'd, and aspects kind, The child of Fancy left behind: By rapture's blaze impell'd, they swell the artless lay. With gentle arts, the tort'ring hours; Adversity, with rankling tooth, Her baleful gifts profusely pours. * Ode on Spring. Behold she comes, the fiend forlorn, Array'd in Horror's settled gloom; She strews the briar and prickly thorn, And triumphs in th' infernal doom. With frantic fury and insatiate rage, She gnaws the throbbing breast and blasts the glowing page. No more the soft Æolian flute* Breathes through the heart the melting strain; The powers of Harmony are mute, And leave the once-delightful plain ; With heavy wing, I see them beat the air, Yet stay, O! stay, celestial pow'rs, Destructive on the fav'rite bard; O watch with me his last expiring breath, And snatch him from the arms of dark, oblivious death. Hark, the Fatal Sisters+ join, And with Horror's mutt'ring sounds, Weave the tissue of his line, 66 While the dreadful spell resounds. Hail, ye midnight sisters, hail, "O'er the glory of the land, O'er the innocent and gay, Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of pain, *The Progress of Poesy. †The Fatal Sisters, an Ode. |