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TO MR. GRAY, UPON HIS ODES.

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.a

REPINE not, Gray, that our weak dazzled eyes
Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
How few can trace the eagle to the skies,
Or, like him, gaze upon the sun!

Each gentle reader loves the gentle Muse,
That little dares and little means;

Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,
Or flutters in the Magazines.

No longer now from Learning's sacred store
Our minds their health and vigour draw;
Homer and Pindar are revered no more,
No more the Stagyrite is law.

Though nursed by these, in vain thy Muse appears
To breathe her ardours in our souls;

In vain to sightless eyes and deadened ears
The lightning gleams, the thunder rolls:

a From the original MS. in the possession of the late Isaac Reed, Esq.

Yet droop not, Gray, nor quit thy heaven-born art;
Again thy wondrous powers reveal;

Wake slumbering Virtue in the Briton's heart,
And rouse us to reflect and feel!

With ancient deeds our long-chilled bosoms fire,
Those deeds that mark Eliza's reign!

Make Britons Greeks again, then strike the lyre,
And Pindar shall not sing in vain.

ODE

ON

THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CARLISLE.

WHAT spirit's that which mounts on high,
Borne on the arms of every tuneful Muse?
His white robes flutter to the gale:

They wing their way to yonder opening sky,
In glorious state through yielding clouds they

sail,

And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse.

What avails the Poet's art?

What avails his magic hand?
Can he arrest Death's pointed dart,

Or charm to sleep his murderous band?

Well I know thee, gentle shade!

That tuneful voice, that eagle eye.Quick bring me flowers that ne'er shall fade, The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die;

With every honour deck his funeral bier,
For he to every Grace and

every Muse was dear!

The listening Dryad, with attention still,
On tiptoe oft would near the Poet steal,
To hear him sing upon the lonely hill

Of all the wonders of th' expanded vale,

The distant hamlet, and the winding stream,
The steeple shaded by the friendly yew,
Sunk in the wood the sun's departing gleam,

The grey-robed landscape stealing from the view.

Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing woe, O'er each low tomb he breathed his pious strain, A lesson to the village swain,

And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow!

But soon with bolder note, and wilder flight, O'er the loud strings his rapid hand would run: Mars hath lit his torch of war,

Ranks of heroes fill the sight!

Hark! the carnage is begun!

And see the furies, through the fiery air,

O'er Cambria's frightened land the screams of horror bear!

a This alludes to Mr. Gray's Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard.

The Bard, a Pindaric Ode.

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