With more delight those pleasing shades I view, Where Condé from an envious court withdrew ; Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and pride, (Sure judge how empty all, who all had tried!) Beneath his palms the weary chief reposed, Adorn'd by art, disgraced by luxury: Pleased and instructed in a foreign land; No power can ravish from th' industrious swain ? When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth That gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth? When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood, Propt by their care, or strengthen'd by their blood, Of fairless independence wisely vain, The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain ? Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice, Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice; Bids me contemplate every state around, From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound; Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see: And tells me, These, like England, once were free!" Lord Lyttelton.-Born 1709, Died 1773. 906.-TO THE MEMORY OF THE FIRST LADY LYTTELTON. At length escaped from every human eye, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, No more my mournful eye But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast? Your bright inhabitant is lost. You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts Where female vanity might wish to shine, The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye: To your sequester'd dales And flower-embroider'd vales From an admiring world she chose to fly : With Nature there retired, and Nature's God, The silent paths of wisdom trod, And banish'd every passion from her breast, But those, the gentlest and the best, Whose holy flames with energy divine The virtuous heart enliven and improve, The conjugal and the maternal love. Whate'er your ancient sages taught, Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain, Nor then on Mincio's bank Beset with osiers dank, Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle stream, Nor where through hanging woods That, of your guardian care bereft, To dire disease and death your darling should be left. Now what avails it that in early bloom, When light fantastic toys Are all her sex's joys, With you she search'd the wit of Greece and Rome; And all that in her latter days Bright sparkling could inspire, By all the Graces temper'd and refined; Or what in Britain's isle, Most favour'd with your smile, The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd To full perfection have conspired to raise ? Ah! what is now the use Of all these treasures that enrich'd her And made each charm of polish'd courts agree With candid Truth's simplicity, And uncorrupted Innocence! Tell how to more than manly sense She join'd the softening influence How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy, Which oft the care of others' good destroy, Her kindly-melting heart, To every want and every woe, To guilt itself when in distress, The balm of pity would impart, And all relief that bounty could bestow ! Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life Beneath the bloody knife, Her gentle tears would fall, Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all. Not only good and kind, But strong and elevated was her mind: Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize; A wit that, temperately bright, With inoffensive light All pleasing shone; nor ever past The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober And sweet Benevolence's mild command, And without weakness knew to be sincere. O best of wives! O dearer far to me How can my soul endure the loss of thee? How in the world, to me a desert grown, Without thy lovely smile, The dear reward of every virtuous toil, What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise. For my distracted mind What succour can I find? Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, And seek those regions of serene delight, Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss. There death himself thy Lucy shall restore, There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more. Lord Lyttelton.-Born 1709, Died 1773. 907.-ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, And ye, that from the stately brow among Wanders the hoary Thames along Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, I feel the gales that from ye blow To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast scen The paths of pleasure trace, What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some on earnest business bent Some bold adventurers disdain Still as they run, they look behind; 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 the approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, And black Misfortune's baleful train. Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murth'rous band; Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, And Envy wan, and faded Care, 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, Lo! in the vale of years beneath The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, To each his sufferings: all are men, The tender for another's pain, The 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.-Born 1716, Died 1771. 908.-HYMN TO ADVERSITY. Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour, The bad affright, afflict the best! When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd, To thee he gave the heavenly birth, And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse, thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore: What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice, and threatening mien, Thy form benign, oh goddess! wear, To soften, not to wound, my heart. What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. Gray.-Born 1716, Died 1771. 909.-THE BARD. "Ruin seize thee, ruthless king, Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail |