10 20 30 I.-CHAP. X.-'Toward the end of the week '-end of chapter. I THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE YE distant spires, ye antique tow'rs, Where grateful Science still adores 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 flow'rs among Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade, Where once my careless childhood strayed, I feel the gales that from ye blow As waving fresh their gladsome wing, Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace; To chase the rolling circle's speed, [While some on earnest business bent Their murmuring 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 ev'ry wind, And snatch a fearful joy.] Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possessed; 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, Alas! regardless of their doom Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd'rous band! Ah, tell them they are men! 6 These shall the fury Passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; To each his sufferings: all are men, 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. 80 THE BARD A PINDARIC ODE On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed, 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, O 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. 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. [On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famished 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. "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, through Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king! [She-wolf of France, 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 combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.] "Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 40 50 60 70 80 90 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, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. ["Fill high the sparkling 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.] Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined 100 (The web is wove. The work is done.") 'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblest, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O! 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! ['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; What strings symphonious tremble in the air! What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings. Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings. 'The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. And distant warblings lessen on my ear, Fond impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray.] Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care; He spoke; and, headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. See also ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES ODE TO ADVERSITY THE PROGRESS OF POESY. (Omit Stanzas ii. 1, 2; end with 'Closed his eyes in endless night,' iii. 2.) I 13 14 JAMES FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (1795-1867) MARCO BOZZARIS FROM LINTON'S 'POETRY OF AMERICA' AT midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band- There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour passed on,-the Turk awoke: "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!' And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: 'Strike-till the last armed foe expires; They fought-like brave men, long and well; His few surviving comrades saw Then saw in death his eyelids close [Come to the bridal chamber, Death! The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned men; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.] Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee!-there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears 100 For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek The memory of her buried joys,— Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,— One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die. BRET HARTE A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY I READ last night of the Grand Review I think they said was the number,— Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, The bugle-blast and the drum's quick beat, The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, The cheers of people who came to greet, And the thousand details that to repeat Would only my verse encumber,— Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, And then to a fitful slumber. When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand And the streets of the city were white and bare; No footfall echoed across the square; I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, bear The sound of a far tattooing. Then I held my breath with fear and dread; For into the square, with a brazen tread, O'erlooked the review that morning, To the phantom bugle's warning: Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, And I saw a phantom army come, The patriot graves of the nation. And there came the nameless dead,-the men And, marching beside the others, And so all night marched the Nation's dead, 50 So all night long swept the strange array; |