Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,

Who peppered the highest was surest to please.

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,

If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,

115

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies: 120
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his
skill,

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will. Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper;

Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.

Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser: 130
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and
burn ye!

He was, could he help it?

ney.

135

a special attor

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,

He has not left a better or wiser behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and
bland:

Still born to improve us in every part,

140

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,

When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing:

First Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made. 20
Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

25

And swept, with hurried hand, the strings. With woful measures wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? 30 Still it whispered promised pleasure, 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

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un

bound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy
wings.

O MUSIC! sphere-descended maid!
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,

95

105

You learned an all-commanding power, 100
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page -
"T is said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 110
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON

1746

IN yonder grave a druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

115

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell, 10
Shall sadly seem in pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft, as ease and health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

15

20

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?

With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, 30
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see the fairy valleys fade;

Dun night has veiled the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads, assigned to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom: Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress, With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
O vales and wild woods! shall he say,
In yonder grave your druid lies!

Thomas Gray (1716–1771)

1749

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE

35

40

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green

The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

The sunshine of the breast; Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever-new,

45

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,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day;
Yet see how all around 'em wait
The ministers of human Fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murtherous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!
These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65 Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged 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.

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The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 75