In vain ye search, she is not there ;
In vain ye search the domes of care !
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side :
And often, by the murm'ring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

DYER.

CHAP. VIII.

HYMN TO ADVERSITY.

Daughter of Jove, relentless pow'r,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron

scourge and tort'ring hour
The bad affright, afflict the best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain,
The proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, designd,
To thee he gave the heav'nly birth,
And bade thee form her infant mind.
Stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she hore :
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know:
And from her own she learn’d to melt at others' wo.

Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer Friend, the flatt'ring Foe; By vain Prosperity receiv'd, To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd,
Immers'd in raptrous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid,
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps aitend :
Warm Charity, the gen'ral friend,
With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear.

O, gently on thy suppliant's head,
Dread Goddess lay thy chastning hand !
Not in thy Gorgon terrours clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful band
(As by the impious thou art seen)
With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien,
With screaming Horrour's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, O Goddess ! wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic train be there,
To soften, not to wound my heart.
The gen'rous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are, to feel, and know niyself a man.

GRAY. nanananana

CHAP. IX.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EATON COLLEGE.

Ye distant spires, ye antique tow'rs,
That crown the watry glade,
Where grateful Science still adorés
Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that froin the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow'rs 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 possess'd ;
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, No care beyond to day : Yet see how all around them 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 nien !

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 defild, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest wo.

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 ev'ry lab'ring 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 suff'rings : 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.

GRAY.

CHAP. X.

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels bis drony flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf.in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, . The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.