How well does mem'ry note the golden day,
What time reclin'd in Marg'ret's ftudious glade,
My mimic reed first tun'd the * Dorian lay,

"Unfeen, unheard, beneath an hawthorn shade!"

'Twas there we met the mufes hail'd the hour;
The fame defires, the fame ingenious arts
Infpir'd us both: we own'd and bless'd the pow'r
That join'd at once our studies and our hearts.

O! fince thofe days, when feience spread the feaft,
When emulative youth its relifh lent,

Say has one genuine joy e'er warm'd my breast ?
Enough: if joy was his, be mine content.

To thirst for praise his temperate youth forbore;
He fondly wifh'd not for a poet's name,
Much did he love the mufe, but quiet more,
And, tho' he might command, he flighted fame.

Hither in manhood's prime he wifely fled

From all that folly, all that pride approves ; To this foft fcene a tender partner led;

This laurel fhade was witnefs to their loves.

"Begone (he cry'd) ambition's air-drawn plan; "Hence with perplexing pomp's unwieldy wealth: "Let me not feem, but be the happy man,

"Poffeft of love, of competence, and health.”

Smiling he fpake, nor did the fates withstand;
In rural arts the peaceful moments flew :
Say, lovely lawn! that felt his forming hand,
How foon thy furface fhone with verdure new:

* Mufous, the firft Poem which the author published, written while he was a fcholar of St. College in Cambridge.

How foon obedient Flora brought her store,
And o'er thy breaft a fhower of fragrance flung:
Vertumnus came; his earliest blooms he bore,
And thy rich fides with waving purple hung:

Then to the fight he call'd yon ftately fpire,
He pierc'd th' oppofing oak's luxuriant fhade.
Bad yonder crowding hawthorns low retire,
Nor veil the glories of the golden mead.

Hail, fylvan wonders, hail! and hail the hand
Whose native taste thy native charms difplay'd,
And taught one little acre to command

Each envied happiness of scene and flade.

Is there a hill whofe diftant azure bounds
The ample range of Scarfdale's proud domain,
A mountain hoar, that yon' wild peak furrounds,
But lends a willing beauty to thy plain?

And, lo! in yonder path, 1 fpy my friend;
He looks the guardian genius of the grove,
as the fabled form that whilom deign'd,
At Milton's call, in Hartfield's haunts to rove.

Mild *

Blefs'd fpirit, come! tho' pent in mortal mould,
I'll yet invoke thee by that purer name ;

O come, a portion of thy blifs unfold,

From folly's maze my wayward fleps reclaim.

See the defcription of the Genius of the Wood

in Milton's Arcades,

For know by lot, from Jove I am the

power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower; To nurfe the faplings tall, and curl the grove, With ringlets quaint, &c.

Too long alas my inexperienc'd youth,

Milled by flatt'ring fortune's fpecious tale, Has left the rural reign of peace and truth,

The huddling brook, and cave, and whisp'ring vale.

Won to the world, a candidate for praise,
Yet, let me boaft, by no ignoble art.
Too oft the public ear has heard my lays,
Too much its vain applaufe has touch'd

my

But now 'ere cuftom binds his powerful chains,
Come from the bafe enchanter fet me free,
While yet my foul its first best taste retains,
Recall that foul to reafon, peace, and thee.

heart:

Teach me, like thee, to mufe on nature's page,
To mark each wonder in creation's plan,
Each mode of being trace, and humbly fage,
Deduce from thefe the genuine powers of man.

Of man, while warm'd with reafon's purer ray,
No tool of policy, no dupe to pride;
Before vain feience led his tafte aftray;

When confcience was his law, and God his guide.

This let me learn, and learning let me live

The leffon o'er. From that great guide of truth

O may my fuppliant foul the boon receive

To tread thro' age the footsteps of thy youth.

ΑΝ

E L EGY

Written in a COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

By Mr. GRAY.

T

HE curfew tells the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillnefs holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.
X

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The fwallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their teem afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boat of heraldry, the pomp
of pow'r
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raife,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated bust

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?