How jocund did they drive their team | Some mute, inglorious Milton here may afield! How bowed the woods beneath their Some Cromwell, guiltless of his coun sturdy stroke! rest; try's blood. E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature | Fair Science frowned not on his humble cries, birth, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sin cere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode: (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow- Wanders the hoary Thames along Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace, What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead. ODE TO EVENING. IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, O nymph reserved, while now the brighthaired Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With braid ethereal wove, Now air is hushed, save where the weakeyed bat, With short, shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds As oft he rises midst the twilight path, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; For when thy folding-star arising shows The fragrant Hours, and Elves And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, love. lier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Thy gentlest influence own, JAMES MERRICK. [1720-1769.] THE CHAMELEON. OFT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, Two travellers of such a cast, Of the chameleon's form and nature. "Hold there," the other quick replies; "T is green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food." "I've seen it, sir, as well as you, "T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure 66 So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: When luckily came by a third; To him the question they referred, And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue. "Sirs," cries the umpire, 'cease your pother; The creature 's neither one nor t' other. I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candlelight; I marked it well, 't was black as jetYou stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it.". "Pray, sir, do; I'll lay my life the thing is blue." "And I'll be sworn, that when you 've seen The reptile, you 'll pronounce him green." "Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!-'t was white. Both stared; the man looked wondrous wise "My children," the chameleon cries (Then first the creature found a tongue), "You all are right, and all are wrong: When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you; Nor wonder if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own." OLIVER GOLDSMITH. [1728-1774.] FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE." SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passsed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; |