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In loose numbers wildly sweet
Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky
loves.

Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous shame,
Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's
holy flame.

II. 3

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breath'd around;
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:

Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour
Left their Parnassus for the Latian

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
Upon the seraph-wings of extasy,
The secrets of th' abyss to spy.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place
and time:

The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where Angels tremble, while they gaze,
He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night.
Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous

car,

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-
resounding pace.

III. 3

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that
burn.

But ah! 'tis heard no more

Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban Eagle bear
Sailing with supreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant

way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.

Elegy, Written in a Country
Churchyard

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er

the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary

way,

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Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean

bear:

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"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,

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