Chapter V: Introduction (5)

Dun-vested Twilight now along the sky,
With tardy moving pace, begins to creep;
Towards their solemn gloom wrap’d mansions fly
The ebon rooks, spread o’er the mountain steep.

Where this bald barren spot of earth expands,
Deck’d with no shade of plant, or flow’rets smile,
Rear’d by some skill-conducted artist’s hands,
A gallows frowns a terror striking pile!

* * * * *

By Hugh Downman, A.B. Printed in Edinburgh, 1768.

LORD MAYOR’S DAY.
_A Mock Elegy._

The sun creeps slowly o’er the eastern hills,
The lazy pacing hours attend his way,
Thro’ the thick fog the scarce pervading beam,
Gives LONDON’S LORD his gorgeous gaudy day.

Now the grim’d scavenger his besom plies,
And whistles at his work, unwonted glee,
The streets look decent, ev’n in courtier’s eyes,
While the wretch sweeps for _dirtier soil_ than he.

And now the city bells, in many a peal,
Bursting at once upon the vacant ear,
Bid the glad freemen from their counters steal,
And hail the day to beef and pudding dear.

Nor pass we by the capon and the chine,
Nor heedless, leave the turkey’s praise unsung!
The many-mixtur’d punch, th’ inspiring wine,
Joy of each heart, and theme of every tongue.

The feasting o’er, the ball, the sprightly dance,
With jocund glee beguile the night away;
The crowds retire when Sunday hours advance,
“_And eat, in dreams, the custard of the day._”

From _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit_. Vol. V. London, 1786.

――――

ELEGY.

Written at the Hotwells, Bristol, July, 1789. By the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Published by Cadell and Davies, Strand, London. It commences as follows:――

The morning wakes in shadowy mantle grey,
The darksome woods their glimmering skirts unfold,
Prone from the cliff the falcon whirls her way,
And long and loud the bell’s slow chime is tol’d.

The redd’ning light gains fast upon the skies,
And far away the glist’ning vapours sail,
Down the rough steep th’ accustom’d hedger hies,
And the stream winds in brightness thro’ the Vale.

――――
ELEGY.
_Written in Poets Corner, Westminster Abbey._

Now sinks the hum confus’d of busy care,
And solemn Eve begins her placid reign;
Mild contemplation muses on the air,
And silence bends before her vestal train.

* * * * *

There are fifteen verses in this imitation, it is given in full in _The Spirit Of the Public Journals_. Volume VI. 1803.

――――

THE NUNNERY.

Now pants the night breeze thro’ the darken’d air,
And silence soothes the vestal world to rest,
Save where some pale fac’d novice (wrapt in pray’r)
Heaves a deep moan, and smites her guiltless breast.

* * * * *

From an anonymous imitation.

――――

ELEGY.
_Supposed to be written on a Field of Battle._

The wrathful storm hath swept along the dale;
The madd’ning fury of the fight is o’er;
Discord’s loud notes have ceas’d upon the gale――
The clang of arms, and pealing cannon’s roar;

The doubling drum; the trumpet’s brazen sound;
The yell of onset and the piercing groan;
The squadron’s charge, that shook the trembling ground;
The steed’s proud neigh; the long and dying moan.

* * * * *

These are the first two verses of a long anonymous poem, published by J. and A. Arch, Cornhill, London, 1818.

――――

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A CITY CHURCHYARD.

Away from care――apart from earthly toil,
Let’s court the stillness of the silent grave,
Where dwell――within the death-encumbered soil,
The ashes of the fair――the gay――the brave!

How many trophies mark the hallowed ground!
Vain mock’ry of the sad and peaceful tomb!
How many fabrics cast their shade around!
Emblems of death! of man’s unerring doom!

* * * * *

From a long imitation, signed M. W. H., which appeared in _Hood’s Magazine_. June, 1848.

TRANSLATIONS
OF
THE ELEGY.

The Elegy has been translated into nearly every European language, whilst numerous Greek and Latin versions have also been printed.

It would be foreign to the objects of this collection to include these translations, but some bibliographical notes may be given which will enable students, and admirers of Gray, to obtain the works, in the Library of the British Museum, or in either of the other great public Libraries in Oxford, Cambridge, Edinburgh, or Dublin.

_Greek Versions of Gray’s Elegy._
J. Norbury. _Eton._ 1793.
Professor Cooke. _Cambridge._ 1785.
C. Coote. _London._ 1794.
B. E. Sparke. ” ”
S. Weston. ” ”
E. Tew. ” 1795.
J. Plumtre. ” 1795.
Hon. G. Denman. _Cambridge._ 1871.

――――:o:――――

_Latin Versions._
Christopher Anstey. _Cambridge._ 1762.

(This was in quarto, other editions have since been published.)

R. Lloyd. 1774.
G. Costa. _Padua._ 1772.
Benio. _Verona._ 1817.
Barbieri. _Verona._ 1817.
C. C. Colton (author of “Lacon”). 1822.
Rev. William Hildyard. _London._ 1839.
J. H. Macaulay. 1841.
H. S. Dickenson. 1849.
James Pycroft, B.A. _Brighton._ 1879.
In Latin Elegiacs. Anonymous. _London._ 1876.
In Latin Elegiacs, by G. H., a countryman
of George Buchanan. 1877.
Munro. In the Ovidian measure. 1880.

――――:o:――――

_French Versions._
M. J. de Chenier. _Paris._ 1805.
J. Roberts. _London._ 1875.
Madame Necker.
Adrien Sarrasin.

――――:o:――――

_Russian Version._
Joukovsky. _Moscow._ 1802.

_Italian Versions._
M. Cesarotti. _Padua._ 1772.
J. Giannini. _London._ 1782.
G. Torelli. _Parma._ 1793.

――――:o:――――

_Phonographic Version._
Corresponding style. Interlinear translation.
_London._ F. Pitman. (About 1866.)

――――:o:――――

In the Library of the British Museum there is a volume entitled: “ELEGIA di Tommaso Gray, sopra un cimitero di Campagna, tradotta dall’ Inglese in piu lingue con aggiunta di varie cose finora inedite per cura dell dottore _Alessandro Torri_. Veronese. Livorno Tipografia Migliaresi. 1843. This contains the original Elegy in English, followed by twelve Italian translations in different metres, five in Latin, one in Hebrew, six in French, one in German prose by William Mason, and three in German verse, or twenty-eight translations in all, and it mentions others which are not included. There are also copious notes, and a biography of Thomas Gray. The press mark in the B. M. Library of this very curious volume is 1465 K.

――――:o:――――

In 1839, a Polyglott edition of Gray’s Elegy was published by Mr. John Van Voorst, of Paternoster Row, London. This charming little volume contains some of the finest specimens of modern wood engraving, in which the artists have admirably succeeded in realising the spirit of the poem. The text consists of the original poem, with Greek, Latin, German, French, and Italian translations. The Greek translation was by Thomas J. Mathias, author of “The Pursuits of Literature,” the Latin by Rev. William Hildyard, the Italian by Guiseppe Torelli, and the German by F. G. Gotter. The French version is ascribed to M. Le Fourneur, whose verses are of very unequal merit; in a few cases he compresses the sense of a verse into two lines, in others he spreads it over six lines, whilst some of Gray’s most poetical ideas and images are entirely omitted.

The second verse:――

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the Beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

he renders

“Du soleil expirant la tremblante lumière
Délaisse par degrés les monts silencieux;
Un calme solennel enveloppe les cieux.”

thus altogether losing the beautiful description contained in the last two lines of the original.

――――:o:――――

A scarce little pamphlet published at Chatham in 1806, (kindly lent by Samuel Timmins, Esq.,) contains some imitations of the Elegy which have already appeared in this Collection, together with an excellent French translation which is worthy of preservation. The Title page runs thus:――

GRAY’S ELEGY
in a
Country Church Yard;
with a
Translation in French Verse
By L.D.
To which are added,
The following imitations:

Nocturnal Contemplations The Nunnery
in Barham Downs Camp. and
Evening Contemplations Nightly Thoughts
in a College. in the Temple.

――――:o:――――
with
Anecdotes of the Life of Gray,
and
Some Remarks in French;
BY THE EDITOR.
――――
CHATHAM.
Printed by C. & W. Townson,
Kentish Courier Office.
――――
1806.

ÉLÉGIE.

Le rappel[27] a marqué le jour en son déclin,
Les troupeaux lentement quittent le pâturage,
Le laboureur courbé suit son triste chemin,
Laissant la sphère obscure à moi seul en partage.

Le paysage au loin passe et s’évanouit,
Un silence profond règne dans la nature,
Hormis où l’escarbot son vol bruyant poursuit,
Et le ruisseau lointain endort par son murmure.

Hors que, de cette tour que le lierre embellit,
Le nocturne hibou pousse une plainte amère
Quand quelque voyageur, approchant son réduit,
Vient troubler, par hazard, son règne solitaire.

A l’ombre de ces ifs, sous ces ormeaux noueux,
Où la terre en monceaux au passage s’oppose,
Renfermé pour toujours dans son caveau poudreux,
Le rustique habitant du village repose.

Le souffle parfumé du zéphir matinal,
Le moineau gazouillant sur leur paisible asyle,
Le chant perçant du coq, le cor aux cerfs fatal,
Ne les tireront plus de leur couche d’argile.

Ah! ils ne verront plus le fagot pétiller,
A leur donner ses soins l’active ménagère,
De chers enfans grimper pour saisir un baiser,
Bégayant à l’envi le tendre nom de père.

Souvent le champ céda ses moissons a leurs faulx,
Et leur soc entrouvrit la glèbe limoneuse,
Comme ils siffloient gaiement en menant leurs chevaux
Comme le bois plioit sous leur main vigoureuse.

Grands, ne méprisez point leurs soins industrieux,
Leurs plaisirs innocens et leurs destins sans gloire;
Orgueilleux, reprimez ce souris dédaigneux,
Au récit peu connu de leur obscure histoire.

Tous ces titres pompeux, ce pouvoir imposant,
Les dons de la beauté, les ris de la fortune,
Ne peuvent exempter du terrible moment;
Le chemin des honneurs mène à la fin commune.

Et vous, ambitieux, ne les accusez point
Si leurs simples tombeaux nul ornement ombrage,
Dans les murs révérés de cet asyle saint,
Où des chants vers les cieux s’élèvent en hommage.

Des faits sur l’urne inscrits, des bustes animés,
Peuvent ils rappeller le souffle irrévocable?
L’honneur peut-il toucher des corps inanimés,
Ou l’encens appaiser la mort inexorable?

Peut-être un cœur rempli jadis d’un feu divin,
Se trouve renfermé dans ce lieu de tristesse,
Un bras propre à régler d’un peuple le destin,
Ou sonner à ravir la lyre enchantéresse.

Mais loin d’eux la science éloigna son trésor,
Des dépouilles du tems amplement enrichie;
L’affreuse pauvreté retint leur noble essor,
En sa source glaça le courant du génie.

Maint et maint beau rubis aux rayons lumineux,
Dans les gouffres profonds du vaste océan brille;
Mainte fleur crôit, fleurit, passe et échappe aux yeux,
Exhalant dans les airs un parfum inutile.

Un Condé de hameau dont le cœur courageux
Brava souvent des loups la sauvage furie,
Un Racine ignoré peut-être est dans ces lieux,
Un Mayenne, innocent du sang de sa patrie.

Par la mâle éloquence étonner un sénat,
Répandre dans l’état la riante abondance,
Affronter les périls, la mort dans le combat,
Être d’un peuple entier la joie et l’ésperance,

Jamais ne fut leur lot; car le sort obstiné
Dans le germe étouffa leurs vertus et leurs crimes,
Défendit, de souiller un trône ensanglanté
Pour régner sans pitié sur de tristes victimes.

Non, ils n’eurent jamais, à réprimer l’ardeur
Des remords dévorans, d’une flamme honteuse,
A prodiguer au vice, au luxe, à la grandeur
L’encens prostitué d’une Muse flatteuse.

Loin du fracas bruyant, des soins tumultueux,
Compagnons assidus des habitans des villes,
Retirés, sans désirs, satisfaits et heureux,
Ils coulèrent sans bruit des jours longs et utiles.

Des insultes pourtant leurs os sont préservés!
On élève près d’eux une pierre rustique,
Où des vers sans mesure, ignoramment gravés,
Arrachent au passant un soupir sympathique.

Leurs noms, leur age inscrits, sans nul ordre arrangés,
Leur tiennent lieu d’honneurs, leur servent d’élégie;
Et des écrits divins, les textes révérés,
Peignent la vanité des grandeurs de la vie.

Car quel est le mortel assez insouciant,
Pour quitter d’un beau jour l’agréable lumière,
Résigner les douceurs d’ici bas au néant
Sans jetter tristement un regard en arrière.

A notre dernière heure il est doux de penser
Que des amis sur nous des larmes vont répandre;
Oui, du fond du tombeau notre esprit sait parler,
Le feu qui brule en nous vit encore dans nos cendres.

Toi, qui ces morts obscurs sans cesse révéras,
Toi, qui peins en ces vers leur innocente image,
Si quelque ame sensible ici portant ces pas,
Demandait aux échos quel sort fut son partage;

Quelque berger en pleurs peut-être lui dira:
“Souvent nous l’avous vu, dès la brillante aurore,
“Fouler les prés fleuris, s’avancer à grand pas
“Vers ce sommet riant, que le soleil colore.

“Là, sous l’ombrage frais de ce hêtre incliné
“Dont les pieds tortueux se jouent sur la verdure,
“Au bord de ce ruisseau tout de son long couché,
“Il sembloit méditer au bruit de son murmure.

“Tantôt près de ce bois il erroit isolé,
“Avec un ris moqueur insultant la fortune
“Tantôt pâle, abattu, comme un être effaré:
“Malheureux en amour, plongé dans l’infortune.

Un jour sur la colline en vain je le cherchai,
“Dans les prés émaillés, sous le paisible ombrage,
“Un autre succéda-mais je ne le trouvai,
“Ni près du clair ruisseau, ni près du bois sauvage.

“Bientôt au bruit des chants, des soupirs, des sanglots,
“Nous le vimes porté sans vie au cimetière,
“Sous cette épine antique, approche et lis ces mots,
“Qu’une main bienfaisante a gravés sur la pierre:”

L’ÉPITAPHE.

Sur le sein de la terre, abandonné, sans biens,
Un jeune infortuné repose ici la tête;
La science en naissant le prit parmi les siens,
Et la mélancolie en fit lors sa conquête.

Son âme fut sincère et son cœur généreux,
Le ciel en récompense le tira des alarmes,
Sa pitié consolante offrit aux malheureux
Tout ce qu’il possédoit――hélas! c’étoit des larmes.

Ne cherche pas plus loin, et laisse ses vertus,
Ses faiblesses aussi reposer en silence
Dans le sein de son Dieu, qui, parmi ses élus,
Un jour doit l’appeler en sa sainte présence.

――――:o:――――

LEGS IN TATTERSALL’S YARD.

The dustman tolls the coming of the morn
Of Monday, big with business and noise;
The coach-guard gaily blows his patent horn,
Delighting all the little girls and boys.

Now briskly move along the well-pav’d street
Tradesmen of ev’ry grade on bus’ness bent;
Merchants and stockbrokers on eastern beat
Their minds on funds and barter most intent.

Now fam’d St. James’s Street is dreary grown,
And left in melancholy desert state,
Save where some guardsman paces up and down
From Hoby’s boot shop to the Palace gate.

Save that at Fenton’s doorway there appears
Some carriage lading to go out of town
Or drayman laying in a stock of beer
To wash the fricassies and good things down.

Moving tw’rd’s Hyde Park Corner in the west,
With steady pace and fashionable swing,
Are seen young sprigs of fortune gaily dress’d,
To lounge an hour in the betting ring.

Beneath yon gateway, Tattersall’s fam’d yard,
Where nags are bought and sold both strong and fleet,
Each with the betting book, and pencil hard,
The legs and sporting men are wont to meet.

Oft does the betting to their cunning yield,
Their craft has many a fav’rite horse thrown back
Then knowingly at odds they back the _field_,
And turn their certain hundreds in a crack.

Let not morality decry their game,
Their heavy bets and calculations clear
For Justice self has patronised the same
Although to Justice many have paid dear.

Nor you, ye tradesmen, murmur or complain,
If when ye ask for cash, ye’re told to wait,
Nor dare to dun, nor importune again,
Tho’ ’twere to save you from starvation’s fate.

Shall the great Derby or the Oaks give place
To ordinary calls at tradesmen’s wills?
Shall bets of honor lost upon a race
Be left unpaid for shopmen’s dirty bills?

Perhaps amidst the motley group you’ll see
Some youth just jump’d into a peer’s estate,
Some halfpay Captain M――, or Colonel D――
Much worse than nothing or by _legging_ great.

Some lucky pugilist whose prowess great
All other heroes of his day withstood,
Some thick-scull’d horsedealer, who owes to fate
More than to head and brains he ever could.

Full many a flat and fortune favour’d youth,
The east and western parts of London hold
Full many a peer can testify the truth,
That many men possess less brains than gold.

Their names, their years, by folly written down,
A lengthen’d list of dupes would well supply,
And many a _leg_ might in the list be shown,
Who carries now his _head_ amazing high.

For thee who knowing not the term of _leg_
Dost in these lines mysterious language find,
And would thereof an explanation beg
To quench the sturdy wonder of thy mind.

Haply at Tattersall’s Subscription Room,
They’ll tell thee that, by modern definition
A Leg’s a Lord, a Captain, or a Groom,
Or one whose betting keeps him in condition

For thee, who paramount of Legs the head,
Dost herein recognize thine own estate,
If chance, in after days by fancy led,
Some sporting novice shall enquire thy fate.

Haply some aged Jockey may reply
Oft have we seen him on Newmarket course,
With steadfast gaze and scrutinizing eye
Watching the trial of some fav’rite horse.

One morn we miss’d him on the accustom’d spot
Just by the ditch, (the meeting week was near,)
The races came but we beheld him not,
At length to church-yard move we saw his bier.

EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon a lap of earth
A Leg at Epsom and Newmarket known,
He made a handsome fortune on the turf,
That turf, alas, now claims him as its own.

From _The Spirit of the Age Newspaper_. 1828.

――――

AN ELEGY
ON
THE DEPARTED SEASON.

The Porter tolls the bell on starting day,
The blowing heard is pent-up steam let free,
The lengthy train winds out its hissing way,
And leaves the town to dulness and to me.

Now fades the glittering season from the sight――
Belgravia a solemn stillness holds;
The “families” from their mansions take to flight,
And holland, glazed, the furniture enfolds.

“The ring,” deserted, leaves Hyde Park in gloom,
No carriage, phaeton, brougham, four-in-hand;
No dashing cab, no top boot dapper groom,
No haughty coachman, no tall footman bland.

The well-dressed men who lean about the rail,
Who lift the hat so gracefully, and bow
To carriage beauties, languishing and pale,
Who wearily respond――where are they now?

Where is the prancing “life” of Rotten Row――
High blood of palaces, or clerk from marts?
Where the fair Amazon, dashing to and fro――
She who breaks horses――eke awhile breaks hearts?

Where are the gentle connoisseurs of flowers――
The languid saunterers through Covent Garden?
Off to their Continental homes and bowers――
Spain――Paris――Italy――Spa――Baden-Baden.

Dark is the Opera――“in silent tiers;”
Just now in jewelled beauty all ablaze.
How short the flitted season past appears!
Singers, and ballet, too, how short their _stays_!

Closed are the halls of fashionable shows――
The “R.A.” masterpieces, and the smudges――
“King Charles and Sunday”――“Venus” without clothes,
That shocked the prudish, and amazed the judges.

The Parliament――its grand defeats and glories――
Its orators profound, and twaddling bores――
The fiery democrats――the Whigs――the Tories――
Ah! blessed fate that gave them to the Moors!

Full many a swell whose way is “all serene,”
Luxurious yachts across the ocean bear;
Full many a gent, too, makes a rush unseen,
To taste the sweetness of the desert air.

Ah you, ye proud of independent wealth,
That boast of heraldry, and power, and pomp!
Ye’re off to some sea coast, recruiting health――
To shooting, angling, county ball, or romp.

But here the milkman calleth every morn,
The sparrows twitter, seeking to be fed;
The maid’s shrill signal, then is ruthless torn,
The man of business from his downy bed.

Come then, thou frequent, fast suburban train――
The river steamer, wherry, gig, or horse――
Let us enjoy the grassy open plain,
And cultivate our cricket, or “La Crosse;”

Or seek beneath the Hyde Park elms a shade
Where patriots, assembled in a heap,
But now the ghost of interdiction laid:
The rude foregatherings of Reform may sleep.

Let not ambition mock that useful toil
By hardy hands and characters obscure,
Nor grandeur think with a disdainful smile
Of such an entry-forcible yet sure.

From _Banter_. Edited by George Augustus Sala. September, 1867.

――――

The whistle shrieks the knell of parting day,
The humming engine coughs along the lea,
The driver lets the steam puff forth its way
And leaves the world to ugliness and me.

* * * * *

See “_The Miz-Maze_,” by Miss Yonge. London. Macmillan & Co.

――――:o:――――

Mr. Elliot Stock published an illustrated edition of the Elegy, containing a _facsimile_ of the fair copy of the poem in Gray’s hand writing, (which is in Pembroke College, Cambridge,) together with notes of the principle variations in different copies of the Elegy preserved in other collections.

The following articles also contain information on Gray’s poems, and more especially concerning the Elegy.

_The Quarterly Review_, London, December, 1853.

Walford’s _Antiquarian Magazine and Bibliographer_ for November and December, 1883.

In 1884, Mr. K. L. Munden issued a prospectus of a proposed work, intended to contain Parallel Poems, Parodies, and Imitations of Gray’s Elegy. The book was to have been in quarto, and issued at the price of one guinea, but it does not appear in the British Museum Catalogue, so it is probable that it was not published.

In a small publication entitled _Edgbastonia_ for November, 1884, there appeared an article on Parodies, and imitations of Gray’s Elegy, signed by K. L. Munder, probably a misprint for Munden. This contained very little additional information to that previously given in the two admirable articles in Walford’s _Antiquarian Magazine_ above named.

A subscriber to this Collection writes that a parody entitled “_An Elegy written in a London Churchyard_” appeared in “The Literary Sketch Book,” for 1825, London. No such work however appears in the catalogue of the British Museum Library, the parody mentioned cannot therefore be included.

――――

Dr. Tisdall, of Dublin, has courteously written to point out a few errors which occurred in his parody, _The Elegy on Mrs. Mulligan_, as it originally appeared in _The Elocutionist_, as well as in the reprint of it on page 37 _Parodies_. The corrections are as follows:――

Verse 2, line III. A tender mother――a devoted wife.

Verse 4, line II. With vests, _he-mises_, with handkerchiefs, and frills.

Verse 12, line III. And scatter snowdrops as ye pass along.

Verse 13, line II. No fulsome epitaph, no flattering trope.

――――

This concludes the Parodies, Imitations, and Translations of Gray’s _Elegy in a Country Church Yard_. Such a collection has never before been attempted; every endeavour has been made to gather materials from all available sources, and it is believed that no parody of any interest, or merit, has been omitted. Should, however, attention be drawn to any omission, mention will be made of it in a future issue.

――――

ODE ON THE SPRING.

[The title originally given by Mr. Gray to this Ode was “Noontide.”]

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 cuckow’s note,
The untaught harmony of Spring:
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ 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 reclin’d 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 thro’ the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
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 thro’ 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 glitt’ring 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.

THOMAS GRAY.

――――

ODE ON THE SPRING
_By a Man of Fashion._

I.

Lo! where party giving dames,
Fair Fashion’s train, appear,
Disclose the long-expected games,
And wake the modish year.
The opera-warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the actor’s note,
The dear-bought harmony of Spring;
While, beaming pleasure as they fly,
Bright flambeaus through the murky sky
Their welcome fragrance fling.

II.

Where’er the routs full myriads close
The staircase and the door,
Where’er thick files of belles and beaus
Perspire through ev’ry pore;
Beside some faro-table’s brink,
With me the Muse shall stand and think,
(Hemmed sweetly in by squeeze of state,)
How vast the comfort of the crowd,
How condescending are the proud,
How happy are the great!

III.

Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The drays and hacks repose;
But, hark, how through the vacant air
The rattling clamour glows!
The wanton Miss and rakish Blade,
Eager to join the Masquerade,
Through streets and squares pursue their fun;
Home in the dusk some bashful skim;
Some lingering late, their motley trim
Exhibit to the sun.

IV.

To Dissipation’s playful eye,
Such is the life for man,
And they that halt and they that fly
Should have no other plan:
Alike the busy and the gay
Should sport all night till break of day,
In Fashion’s varying colours drest;
Till seiz’d for debt through rude mischance,
Or chill’d by age, they leave the dance,
In gaol or dust――to rest.

V.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
Some sober quiz reply,
Poor child of Folly! what art thou?
A Bond-Street butterfly?
Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets,
No taste hast thou of vernal sweets,
Enslav’d by noise, and dress, and play;
Ere thou art to the country flown,
The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone,
Then leave the town in May.

From _The Fashionable World Displayed_. By John Owen. London, 1804,

――――

ODE ON THE CLOSING OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,
_By George, Prince Regent, in_ 1816.

Lo! where the scarlet-bosom’d band,
The REGENT’S pomp, appear;
Lo! where the Commons crowding stand,
The Session’s close to hear!

The spangled Ruler pours his throat,
Responsive to the Speaker’s note,
Well-prim’d his part to play;
While Placemen, Pensioners, and Peers,
By listening with attentive ears,
Their ready tribute pay.

Where the old tapestry figures stretch
Their cobwebs round the throne;
Where note-takers contrive to catch
No meaning but their own;

Viewing the REGENT’S well-plum’d head,
Some time I stood, then whisp’ring said,
As much I marvell’d at his hat――
How true to Nature is his wig;
What beaux, what triflers are the big!
What Dandies are the fat!

The Treasury tribe is on the wing,
Eager to end their troubled Spring,
And bask them in the Summer noon;
Some prosing in the lobby wait,
Some show their star-bedizen’d state,
Or Cossack pantaloon.

To Contemplation’s sober eye,
Such is the race of man;
And they that speak, and they that try,
Must end where they began.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
Some holder of a place――
“Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A patriot in disgrace!

“Thy hand no gracious REGENT meets,
No hive hast thou of pension sweets――
No stars, no riband to display;
In rebel speech thy hope is flown;
Thy name is up, thy party known――
We pocket while we may.”

From _The New Tory Guide_. London: Ridgeway, 1819.

――――:o:――――

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT.
_Drowned in a Tub_[28] _of Gold Fishes._

’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dy’d
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclin’d,
Gaz’d on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declar’d;
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 gaz’d; but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide[29]
The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
Thro’ 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 sat by, and smil’d)
The slipp’ry verge her feet beguil’d,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery God,
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,
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 wondering eyes,
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,
Nor all that glistens,[30] gold.

THOMAS GRAY.

――――

ODE
_On the death of a favourite, who was nearly drowned in the River
Thames._

’Twas in a new-constructed boat,
Which Acre’s hero set afloat
The Treasury Bench to show,
Demurest of the placeman kind,
The gentle Castlereagh[31] reclin’d,
Gazed on the Thames below

His tail, which he so lately turn’d,
The face which ne’er with shame had burn’d.
His powerful grasp of paws!
The coat which he had often chang’d
His ears _still_ left, and eyes which rang’d
He saw, and smil’d, applause.

Still had he gaz’d; but ’midst the tide
Some Downshire voters seemed to glide,
With aspect sweet and mild:
Their lists of freeholds in their hand
With names of those they could command,
Betray’d this ardent child.

The hapless youth with transport saw;
A prosing speech, and then a claw,
To gain the sturdy race
He stretch’d in vain to reach the prize;
Nor could _he_ well such fish despise,
Who is so fond of _Place_.

Presumptuous youth! with looks intent,
Again he stretched, again he bent,
Nor saw the gulf between:
Malignant Fate sat by and smil’d
The slippery verge his feet beguil’d,
He tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the Thames,
He call’d his messmates by their names,
Some speedy aid to send:
No Phipps, no Long, no Premier heard,
(Because he slept), nor Mulgrave stirr’d――
A fav’rite has no friend.

From hence, ye placemen, undeceiv’d,
Know, one false step is ne’er retriev’d;
Be warn’d by this sad hour;
Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes
And hearts corrupt, is lawful prize,
Nor all within your pow’r.

From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_. 1805. James Ridgway. London.

――――

PARODY OF GRAY’S ODE.
_On a Cat drowned in a tub of Gold Fishes._

’Twas on the pavement of a lane,
Where a hard shower of soaking rain
Had made a pretty mess;
A buck advanc’d with careful strut,
For fear a sprinkle from the rut
Should soil his lily dress.

His powder’d head, his silken hose,
The dashing buckles on his toes,
Seem’d suited for a court;
The muslin round a pudding roll’d
In which he kept his chin from cold,
Was of the finest sort.

He trod on slow; but ’midst the tide
A brewer’s dray was seen to glide――
Unmindful of the mud;
Before which stalked, with steps quite bold,
Two high-fed steeds of beauteous mould――
The pride of Whitbread’s stud.

The splashing made on every side
The lane, which was not over wide,
Quite terrified the elf:
He saw the careless steeds come on,
But dar’d not stand, nor dar’d to run――
Lest he should splash himself.

At length, poor youth! he made a stop,
And would have got into a shop――
But, ah! the door was shut!
When lo! th’ advanc’d procession greets
The hapless beau with all the sweets
Collected in the rut!

He swore, and call’d the drayman wight
Untaught, unlearn’d, and unpolite,
And said he’d thrash the blade;
But he did not――good reason why;
Alas, no Hercules was nigh,
To give Narcissus aid!

Then, all ye bucks who walk the street,
So spruce, so buxom, and so neat,
Learn this sad tale by reading,
To keep at home on rainy days
Lest you should meet with any drays――
For draymen have no breeding!

_The Morning Chronicle._ 1800.

A parody, entitled “Ode on the amputation of a Cat’s Tail,” was published by B. Flower, Cambridge, 1795, in a pamphlet entitled “_Scraps and Essays_, by a Cantab.”

There is no merit in the parody to atone for the choice of such a disgusting theme for an ode.

Another political imitation of this ode appeared in _The St. James’s Chronicle_ relating to John, Earl of Bute, the Prime Minister in 1762, who was so bitterly attacked by Junius, and John Wilkes. This nobleman, who had been tutor to George III., was nicknamed “Jack Boot,” and in the popular caricatures of the day was represented as a large jack boot surmounted by his head.

The parody possesses little interest, it commences thus:――

’Twas on the lofty Treasury’s side
Where Walpole’s basest arts had tried
The wistful Briberies that flow;
Most ambitious of the Plaidy kind,
The upshot Bute reclined,
Gazed on the gold below.

His country’s hopes his joy declared,
His freckled face, his grizzled beard,
The talons of his paws,
His Plaid, that with the Rainbow vies,
His downcast looks, and jaundiced eyes,
He said, and hummed applause.

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

[This was the first English production of Mr. Gray that appeared in print, and was published in folio, by Dodsley, in 1747.]

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat’ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her HENRY’S holy shade[32];
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of WINDSOR’S heights th’ expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields belov’d 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?

While some on earnest business bent,
Their murm’ring labours ply
’Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue,
Wild Wit, Invention ever-new,
And lively Cheer, of Vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th’ approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around ’em wait
The Ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune’s baleful train!
Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murd’rous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visag’d comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow’s piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness’ alter’d eye,
That mocks the tear it forc’d to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defil’d,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath,
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemn’d alike to groan;
The tender for another’s pain,
Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
Since Sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their Paradise,
No more;――where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be wise.

THOMAS GRAY.

――――

ODE ON RANELAGH.[33]
_Addressed to the Ladies._

Ye dazzling lamps, ye Jocund fires,
That from yon fabric shine,
Where grateful pleasure yet admires
Her Lacy’s great design:
And ye who from the fields which lie
Round Chelsea, with amazement’s eye,
The gardens and the dome survey,
Whose walks, whose trees, whose lights among,
Wander the courtly train along
Their thought-dispelling way.

Ah splendid room! Ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, walks belov’d in vain,
Where oft in happier times I stray’d,
A stranger then to pain:
I feel the gales, which from you blow
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
They seem to sooth my famish’d soul
And, redolent of tea and roll,
To breathe a second spring.

Rotunda, say, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
In thy bright round with step serene,
The paths of pleasure trace:
Who chiefly now delight to lave
Green hyson, in the boiling wave,
The sable coffee, which distil?
What longing progeny are found
Who stroll incessant round and round
Like horses in a mill?

While some on earnest business dream:
And, gravely stupid, try
To search each complicated scheme
Of publick policy:
Some ladies leave the spacious dome
Around the garden’s maze to roam,
And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they walk they look behind,
Lest fame a secret foe should find
From some malicious eye.

Loud mirth is theirs, and pleasing praise,
To beauty’s shrine address’d:
The sprightly songs, the melting lays,
Which charm the soften’d breast!
Theirs lively wit, invention free,
The sharp _bon mot_, keen repartee,
And ev’ry art coquets employ!
The thoughtless day, the jocund night,
The spirits brisk, the sorrows light,
That fly th’ approach of joy.

Alas! regardless of their doom
The lovely victims rove;
No sense of sufferings yet to come
Can now their prudence move:
But see! where all around them wait
The ministers of female fate,
An artful, perjur’d, cruel train;
Ah! show them where in ambush stand
To seize their prey, the faithless band
Of false, deceitful men!

These shall the lust of gaming wear
That harpy of the mind,
With all the troop of rage and fear,
That follows close behind:
Or pining love shall waste their youth,
Or jealousy, with rankling tooth,
That gnaws bright Hymen’s golden chain,
Who opens wide the fatal gate,
For sad distrust and ruthless hate,
And sorrow’s pallid train.

Ambition this shall tempt to fix
Her hopes on something high,
To barter for a coach and six
Her peace and liberty.
The stings of scandal these shall try,
And affectation’s haughty eye
That scowls on those it us’d to greet,
The cutting sneer, the abusive song
And false report that glides along,
With never-resting feet.

And lo! when in the vale of years
A grisly tribe are seen;
Fancy’s pale family of fears,
More hideous than their queen:
Struck with th’ imaginary crew
Which artless nature never knew,
These aid from quacks, and cordials beg,
While this, transform’d by folly’s hand,
Remains awhile at her command
A tea-pot, or an egg.

To each her suff’rings: all must grieve,
And pour a silent groan,
At homage others charms receive,
Or slights that meet their own:
But all the voice of truth severe
Will suit the gay, regardless ear,
Whose joy in mirth and revels lies!
Thought would destroy this paradise.
No more!――Where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be wise.

ANONYMOUS. 1775.

――――

The eminent, but eccentric architect, Sir John Soane, was satirised in _Knight’s Quarterly Magazine_ (No. 4, 1824), in an article by a witty critic, who, speaking of Dulwich College, said, “It is a fine specimen of Soane’s own original and best style,” and thus addresses it, in a parody of Gray:――

“Ye vases five, ye antic towers,
That crown the turnpike glade,
Where art, in dingy light adores
Her _Bourgeois’_ ochrey shade;”

The poet then apostrophises the Superior of the College, who, by the will of its founder, Allen, must always bear the same name as himself:――

“Say, MASTER ALLEN, hast thou seen
The connoisseuring race,
Breathless, amazed, on Dulwich-green,
My lines of beauty trace?
Who foremost now delights to stop
To look at God’s Gift[34] picture shop;
Is’t _Nash_, or _Smirke_, or _Gwilt_?
Do not the knowing loungers cry,
‘My eye!’ at my sarcophagi,
And guess by whom ’twas built!”

* * * * *

――――

ODE ON THE DISTANT PROSPECT OF A GOOD DINNER.

Ye distant dishes, sideboards blest
With Halford’s peptic pill――
Where grateful gourmands still attest
Illustrious Robert’s skill;
And ye that, girt with _legumes_ round,
Or in the purest pastry bound,
On silvery surface lie;
Where _pâté_――_salmi_――_sauce tomate_,
_Fricandeau_ framed with nicest art
Attract the glist’ning eye.

Ah! richest scent! perfume beloved!
Blest odours breathed in vain――
Where once my raptured palate roved,
And fain would rove again.
I feel the gales that now ascend,
A momentary craving lend――
As curling round the vapours seem
My faded faculties t’excite,
Restore my long-pall’d appetite,
And soothe me with their steam.

Say, Monsieur Ude, for thou hast seen
Full many a jovial set
Discoursing on _la bonne cuisine_,
In social union met――
Who foremost now prepare to pray
_Des cotelettes à la chicorée?_
_Sauté de saumon――qui l’attend?_
What young Amphitryons now vote
Nothing like _pigeons en compote_,
Or taste the _vol-au-vent_?

While some at lighter viands aim,
And towards digestion lean,
_Poularde aux truffes_, or _à la crème_,
Or _agneau aux racines_;
Some hardier epicures disdain
The distant chance of doubtful pain,
And _queue d’esturgeon_ try;
Still as they eat they long to cease,
They feel a pang as every piece
Passes their palate by.

But lo! the _entremets_ are placed
To greet the gourmand’s nose,
Bedeck’d with all the pride of paste,
Confective prowess shows.
One earnestly devotes his praise
To _beignets a la lyonnaise_,
Others survey with mix’d delight
_Gelées d’orange_――_de marasquin_;
While some, with looks ecstatic, scan
The _soufflé’s_ buoyant height.

Best fair is theirs by ―――― fed,
Less pleasing to digest;
The taste soon gone, and in its stead,
Oppression on the chest.
Theirs joyous hours, and jocund nights,
Wit’s playful sallies, fancy’s flights,
And goodly cheer as e’er was seen――
The aged Hock――the Champagne bright,
Burgundia’s best, and Claret light,
The vintage of nineteen.

Alas! regardless of their doom
Each rich ragout they take,
No sense have they of pains to come,
Of head, or stomach-ache.
Yet see how all around them press,
Th’ attendants of each night’s excess;
Fell Indigestion’s followers vile:
Ah! show them where the hateful crew
Scoff calomel and pills of blue,
Ah! tell them they have bile.

These shall the Gout tormenting rack,
The Vampire of the toes,
Night-mare, Lumbago in the back,
And Cholic’s painful throes;
Or languid liver waste their youth,
Or caries of a double tooth,
Its victim’s nerves that nightly gnaws.
Vertigo――Apoplexy――Spleen,
The feverish hand――the visage green,
The lengthen’d lanthorn jaws.

This, a _consommé_, precious prize!
Is tempted now to try;
To restless nights a sacrifice,
And dire acidity.
Till throbs of heart-burn――ague’s pangs,
And Cholera’s fiercely fixing fangs,
Have left him, liverless, to moan,
The bloated form――the pimpled face,
The tottering step――th’ expiring trace
Of good digestion gone.

To each his twitches, all are men,
Condemned to pick their bone;
The poor man in another’s den,
The rich man in his own.
Yet, why should I of torments treat?
Since we were made to drink and eat,
Why should I prophesy their pain?
Stomachs were form’d for holding food――
No more――while our digestion’s good,
’Tis folly to abstain.

From _Blackwood’s Magazine_, May, 1828.

――――

ODE ON A PROSPECT OF THE ABOLITION OF ETON MONTEM.

Ye distant spires, ye antique tow’rs.
That crown the wat’ry glade,
Where Aristocracy’s young flowers
Bless Henry’s holy shade,
For culture which the monarch meant
For scholars poor and indigent;
Unable for their lore to pay――
Some grumbling churls, in language strong,
Pronounce this change a wicked wrong,
No matter what they say!

Ah hapless tow’rs! ah luckless spires!
Ah statutes shirk’d amain!
That high-born sons of noble sires
Might learning _gratis_ gain;
The gales that from your quarters blow
Oppress me with a sense of woe;
For they a horrid rumour bring
That Eton Montem is to be
At length abolish’d――Goodness me!
Oh what a shocking thing!

Say, Hill of Salt, for thou hast seen
Full many a noble race
Do what might be considered mean
In any other case――
With cap in hand, and courtly leg,
Waylay the traveller, and beg;
Say, was it not a pleasing sight
Those young Etonians to behold,
For eleemosynary gold,
Arrest the passing wight!

Whilst some, of more excursive bent,
Their vagrant arts to ply,
To all the various places went,
That in the neighbourhood lie;
To Datchet, Slough, or Horton they,
Or e’en to Colnbrook, took their way,
Or ancient Windsor’s regal town;
Stopp’d everybody they could meet,
Knock’d at each house in every street,
In hopes of half-a-crown.

Gay clothes were theirs, by fancy made;
Some were as Romans drest,
Some in the Grecian garb array’d,
Some bore the knightly crest;
Theirs was attire of every hue,
Of every fashion, old or new,
Various as Nathan’s ample store:
Angelic beings! Ladies! say,
Will ye let these things pass away?
Must Montem be no more?

Alas! our institutions old
Are going, one by one;
The work of innovation bold,
With Montem has begun;
Next flogging it will overthrow,
And fagging, too, of course will go,
And then farewell the good old school
Science with Latin and with Greek
To mix e’en now Reform would seek
Ah, tell her she’s a fool!

To all their likings, and their taste,
Their fancies and their qualms;
Some gentlemen may feel debased
By sons who ask for alms;
Yet youthful Lord, and stripling Duke,
To beg for salt, without rebuke,
At Montem always were allowed:――
What argument can answer this?
No more――where beggary is bliss,
’Tis folly to be proud.

_Punch._ December, 1846.

――――

ODE ON A CLOSE PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
(_By a Gray-Headed Wet Bob._)

Ye crumbling spires, ye antique towers,――
What, if ye were decayed!
What, if your fragments fell in showers
On HENRY’S holy shade!
And what, if o’er your cloister walls
Vague pencilled ornamental scrawls
Afforded mute display;
Should Vandals, who all things renew,
Be down upon thy records too,
And sweep them clean away!

But, there!――with taste he calls “correct,”
’Mid scenes of vanished days
Your gay _restoring_ Architect
The very dickens plays!
Yet, as his brand-new work he vaunts,
He gives us for our treasured haunts
Red brick――and nothing more!
Which drives Wet Bob to stick to this,
“Where crumbling memories are bliss,
’Tis folly to restore!”

_Punch._ August 5, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE BARD.

A PINDARIC ODE.

[_This Ode is founded on a Tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. But this Tradition has long been known to be destitute of any reliable historical foundation._]

I.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless King
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Tho’ fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor Hauberk’s twisted mail[35]
Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!”
Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter’d wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side[36]
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glos’ter stood aghast[37] in speechless trance
To arms! cried Mortimer[38] and couch’d his quiv’ring lance.

II.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood,
Rob’d in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream’d, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a Master’s hand, and Prophet’s fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre,
“Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert-cave,
“Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath!
“O’er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
“Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
“Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day,
“To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.

III.

“Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue,
“That hush’d the stormy main:
“Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
“Mountains, ye mourn in vain
“Modred, whose magic song
“Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp’d head.
“On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie,
“Smear’d with gore, and ghastly pale:
“Far, far aloof th’ affrighted ravens sail;
“The famish’d Eagle screams, and passes by
“Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
“Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes
“Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
“Ye died amidst your dying country’s cries――
“No more I weep. They do not sleep.
“On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
“I see them sit, they linger yet,
“Avengers of their native land:
“With me in dreadful harmony they join,
“And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

IV.

“Weave the warp, and weave the woof
“The winding sheet of Edward’s race
“Give ample room, and verge enough
“The characters of hell to trace.
“Mark the year, and mark the night,
“When Severn shall re-echo with affright
“The shrieks of death, thro’ Berkley’s roof that ring,
“Shrieks of an agonizing King[39]
“She-wolf of France[40], with unrelenting fangs,
“That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,
“From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs
“The scourge of Heaven. What Terrors round him wait!
“Amazement in his van, with Flight combin’d,
“And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.

V.

“Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
“Low on his funeral couch he lies![41]
“No pitying heart, no eye, afford
“A tear to grace his obsequies.
“Is the sable Warrior fled?[42]
“Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.
“The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born.
“Gone to salute the rising Morn.
“Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows
“While proudly riding o’er the azure realm
“In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;
“Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
“Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind’s sway,
“That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.

VI.

“Fill high the sparking bowl
“The rich repast prepare,
“Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
“Close by the regal chair
“Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
“A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest.
“Heard ye the din of battle bray
“Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
“Long years of havock urged their destin’d course,
“And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way.
“Ye Tow’rs of Julius,[43] London’s lasting shame,
“With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
“Revere his Consort’s faith[44], his father’s fame[45]
“And spare the meek Usurper’s holy head[46]
“Above, below, the rose of snow,[47]
“Twin’d with her blushing foe, we spread:
“The bristled Boar[48] in infant-gore
“Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
“Now, Brothers, bending o’er th’ accursed loom,
“Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

VII.

“Edward, lo! to sudden fate
“(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
“Half of thy heart we consecrate[49]
“(The web is wove. The work is done.”)
“Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
“Leave me unbless’d, unpitied, here to mourn:
“In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
“They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
“But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height
“Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
“Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
“Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!
“No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
“All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia’s Issue hail.[50]

VIII.

“Girt with many a Baron bold
“Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
“And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old,
“In bearded majesty appear.
“In the midst a Form divine!
“Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
“Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
“Attemper’d sweet to virgin-grace.
“What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
“What strains of vocal transport round her play!
“Hear from the grave, great Talliessin, hear;
“They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
“Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings,
“Waves in the eye of Heav’n her many-colour’d wings.

IX.