Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that sculks 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 Madress 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:

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This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85 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 suff'rings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan,

The tender for another's pain;
Th' unfeeling for his own.

90

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate? 95 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.

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And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join; Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: 1 A fellow-student of Gray's at Eton, and one of his most intimate friends. West died at the age of 25, June 1st, 1742, and the sonnet on his death was written in the following August.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:

How jocund did they drive heir team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

great

The pealing anthem swells the note of

praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

40

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

45

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

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And froze the genial current of the soul.

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Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes con-
fin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous sháme,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

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Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture mbt deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Call forth, summon.

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Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woful-wan; like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; 110 Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw

him borne:

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the

1"This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales that Edward I, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death." Gray.

2 Cambria, the ancient name of Wales.

3 Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, who had conducted the war in South Wales before joining forces with the king.

Edward de Mortimer, who co-operated with the king in North Wales.

Probably Howel ab Owain, a bard of the latter 12th century. For many of the other bards, Gray appears simply to have selected appropriate national names, without having any specific Welsh poet in mind.

i. e.. on the coast of Carnarvonshire (Arvon von Caer-yn-Arvon, the camp in Arvon).

Carnar

When music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions oft, to hear her shell,1
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

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1 Lyre. The primitive lyre was supposed to have been made by stretching strings across the shell of a tortoise.

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure?

Still it whispered promised pleasure,

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And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on echo still, through all the song; 35 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung;-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose:

40

He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder,

down;

And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! 45 And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum, with furious heat;

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,

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While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, jealousy, to naught were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was

mixed;

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And now it courted love, now raving called