In the character of his Elegy I rejoice to concur with the common reader; for by the common sense of readers, uncorrupted with literary prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of learn. ing, must be finally decided all claim to poetical honours. The Church yard' abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas, beginning Yet even these bones,' are to me original: I have never seen the notions in any other place; yet he that reads them here persuades himself that he has always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it had been vain to blame, and useless to praise him.

ODES.

I. ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expected flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclined in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,

How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:

Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,

Eager to taste the honied spring,

.G

And float amid the liquid noon :
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some shew their gaily-gilded trim,
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of man:

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter through life's little day,
In fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply:

'Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:

On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-
We frolic, while 'tis May.'

II. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT.

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.

"TWAS on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers, that blow ;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:

Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,

She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between.

(Malignant Fate sate by, and smiled) The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mew'd to ev'ry watʼry God,
Some speedy aid to send.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr❜d:
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard-
A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved
And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize
Nor all, that glisters, gold

III. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF
ETON COLLEGE.

"Ανθρωπος ἱκανὴ πρόφασις εἰς τὸ δυστυχεῖν.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the wat❜ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade;

Menander.

And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
of lawn, of mead survey;

Of grove,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way!

Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!

Ah fields beloved in vain,

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

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

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth,
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,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?

King Henry the Sixth, founder of the College.