Then with a momentary fwift Decay Thy Pride, thy darling Hope, was fnatch'd away. They find their Heav'n enlarg'd, and wait from thence Retiring leaves their Hopes involv'd in endless Night. THE ON CHAM's fair Banks, where Learning's hal Fane Majestic rifes on th'aftonish'd Sight, Where oft the Mufe has led the favourite Swain, And warm'd his Soul with Heav'n's infpiring Light, Beneath the Covert of the Sylvan Shade, Where deadly Cyprefs, mix'd with mournful Yew, The Bloom of Youth, the Majefty of Years, In her fair Hand a filver Harp fhe bore, Who's magic Notes, foft-warbling from the String, Give tranquil Joys the Breaft ne'er knew before, Or raise the Soul on Rapture's airy Wing. By Grief impell'd, I heard her heave a Sigh, While thus the rapid Strain refounded thro' the Sky, 4 Hafte Hafte ye Sifter Powers of Song, Where, indulging mirthful Pleasures, Where your gently-flowing Numbers, For graver Strains prepare the plaintive Lyre, Rack'd by the Hand of rude Disease, The blissful Mufe, whofe favouring Smile, In Tranfport's radiant Garments drest, With darkfome Grandeur and enfeebl'd Blaze, The gaudy Train, who wait on SPRING *, * Ode on SPRING, Ode on the Profpect of ETON COLLEGE. With With cool Regard their various Arts employ, Nor roufe the drooping Mind, nor give the Paufe of Joy. Ha! what Forms with Port fublime 1, They feize their Harps, they strike the Lyre, And SNOWDON's airy Cliffs the heavenly Strains refound, In Pomp of State, behold they wait, The Child of Fancy left behind: Forgot the Woes of CAMBRIA's fatal Day, But ah in vain they strive to footh, * Behold fhe comes, the Fiend forlorn, Array'd in Horror's fettled Gloom, She ftrews the Briar and prickly Thorn, And triumphs in th' infernal Doom: With frantic Fury and infatiate Rage, She gnaws the throbbing Breast, and blasts the glowing Page. BARD, an Ode, * Hymn to ADVERSITY. No No more the foft EOLIAN Flute 1, Breaths through the Heart the melting Strain, The Powers of Harmony are mute, And leave the once-delightful Plain; With heavy Wing I see them beat the Air, Yet ftay, O! ftay celeftial Pow'rs, O watch with me his last expiring Breath, Hark the FATAL SISTERS join §, Weave the Tiffue of his Line, While the dreadful Spell refounds. "Hail ye Midnight Sifters, hail, "O'er the Glory of the Land, "O'er the Innocent and Gay, "O'er the Mufes tuneful Band, Weave the fun'ral Web of GRAY.” 'Tis done, 'tis done-the iron Hand of Pain, The PROGRESS of POETRY. an Ode. The FATAL SISTERS, 2 Thus |