POEMS FROM THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) ODE ON THE SPRING Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expected flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring: While whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling. 10 Where'er the oaks' thick branches stretch A broader browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, low little are the proud, How indigent the great. 20 Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose. Yet hark, how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honeyed spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. 30 To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter through life's little day, In fortune's varying colors dressed: Brushed by the hand of rough mischance, Or chilled by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. 40 Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: "Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-- We frolic, while 'tis May." (1742; pub. 1748) 50 --------------------------------------------------- ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye that from the stately brow Of Windsor's height th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way. 10 Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, Ah fields beloved in vain, Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. 20 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 enthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? 30 While some on earnest business bent Their murm'ring labors play '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, And hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. 40 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 vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn. 50 Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today: 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 murth'rous band! Ah, tell them, they are men! 60 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, 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. 70 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, And hard Unkindness's altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. 80 Lo, in the vale of years beneath A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age. 90 To each his suff'rings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, 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. (1742; pub. 1747) 100 Notes 3. Learning. 4. Henry VI, who founded Eton College in 1441. 5. The towers of Windsor Castle. 20. Second childhood. 32. Memorizing Latin aloud. --------------------------------------------------- ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 1 The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r 9 The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 13 Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 17 The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the ecchoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 21 Or busy houswife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 29 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 33 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, 37 If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust 41 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 49 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 53 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 57 The little Tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 61 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 69 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 73 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 77 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, 81 The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 89 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 93 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 97 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 101 'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 'His listless length at noontide wou'd he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove, 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 109 'Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 'The next with dirges due in sad array 113 'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. 'Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, 'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' The EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 117 A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown, Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 121 Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 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 THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES Written in 1747 to commemorate the death by drowning of Horace Walpole's cat, Selima. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dy'd The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclin'd, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, 10 Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr'd applause. Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, 20 With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd) The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd, She tumbled headlong in. 30 Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry watry God, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Fav'rite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties, undeceiv'd, Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes 40 And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all, that glisters, gold. --------------------------------------------------- THE BARD: A PINDARIC ODE Written between 1755 and mid-June 1757. ADVERTISEMENT (1757 by Gray) The following Ode is founded on a Tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he compleated the conquest of his country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death. Note: The quotation marks in the poem's first line indicate that lines 1-8 are spoken by the Bard. I.1 Strophe "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 10 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. I.2 Antistrophe 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 Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 20 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 aweful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breath; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. I.3 Epode Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main: 30 Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, 40 Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your country's cries-- No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a griesly 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." II.1 Strophe "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 50 Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-eccho with affright The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing 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 Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! 60 Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. II.2 Antistrophe 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 Warriour fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising Morn. 70 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, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey. II.3 Epode Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare, Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair 80 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long Years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. 90 Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled Boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. III.1 Strophe Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave the woof. The thread is spun) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.)" 100 "Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowden's height Descending slow their glitt'ring 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, Brittania's Issue, hail! 110 III.2 Antistrophe 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; Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play! 120 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 Heav'n her many-colour'd wings. III.3 Epode The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130 A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud, Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd 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. 140 Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care, To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night. Notes: 1. The last of Welsh bards calls doom on the race of Edward I. 8. Wales. 11. Tallest mountain in Britain. 28. Hywel (d. 1170) and Llewellyn (d. 1282), Princes of Wales. 29. Gray invents names. 35. Opposite the island of Anglesey taken by Edward in 1282. 49. The slaughtered bards spin the destiny of Edward's line. 56. Edward II was murdered in Berkeley Castle in 1327. 57. Isabel of France, Edward II's consort. 60. Edward III, son of Edward II and Isabel, invaded and conquered northern France. 67. The Black Prince, Edward's son, predeceased him. 71. Richard II's court was notable for its magnificence. 87. The Tower of London, where kings and their heirs would be imprisoned and murdered. 90. The saintly Henry VI was upheld by the force of his Queen, Margaret of Anjou, and the heroism of his father Henry V. 92. The white and red roses were, respectively, devices of the houses of York and Lancaster: hence, the wars of the roses. 94. Alluding to Richard III's murder of his nephews and defeat at Bosworth Field. 99. Eleanor of Castile, Edward's queen, died shortly after his conquest of Wales. 101. The ghosts end, leaving the bard alone. 110. The house of Tudor, which acceded on the death of Richard III, is of Welsh origins. 112. Crowned brows. 115. Elizabeth I. 121. Sixth century bard. 126. quotes the Proem to Spenser's Faerie Queene. 130. Shakespeare. 132. Milton.