A solemn, strange, and mingled air; But Thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still thro' all the song; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 35 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. Revenge impatient rose: He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, And with a with'ring look The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, And ever and anon he beat A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. 40 45 The doubling drum with furious heat; And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, 50 Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd; 55 And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sate retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, 60 Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, 65 Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 70 The oak-crowned sisters and their chast-eyed queen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk-awak'ning viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best; To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 90 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; As if he would the charming air repay, Than all which charms this laggard age, 115 GRAY. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 5 10 15 20 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. 30 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. 35 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 raise, Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, |