In loose numbers wildly sweet Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, II. 3 Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, And coward vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, oh, Albion! next thy seaencircled coast. III. I Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: The dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. III. 2 Nor second He, that rode sublime The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear III. 3 Hark, his hands the lyre explore! But ah! 'tis heard no more Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far-but far above the great. Elegy, Written in a Country THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon agèd thorn:" THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 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 sin cere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther 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. OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) The Haunch of Venison THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtú: As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show; But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne. To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch: So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undress'd, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked. best: Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's Howard, and Coley, and Hogarth, and Hiff, |