English Poets of the Eighteenth Century · Chapter 49Thomas Gray
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Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights 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.
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.
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?
While some on earnest business bent Their murmuring labours ply '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, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
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 vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' 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, shew them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murderous 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, 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. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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 labouring 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.
To each his sufferings; all are men, Condemned alike to groan, The tender for another's pain; The 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.
Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain, The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, designed, To thee he gave the heavenly birth, And bade to form her infant mind. Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore; What sorrow was thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learned to melt at other's woe.
Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good: Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe; By vain Prosperity received, To her they TOW their truth, and are again believed.
Wisdom in sable garb arrayed, Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend; Warm Charity, the genial friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear,
Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Hot in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty:
Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart; Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound, my heart; The generous spark extinct revive, Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact nay own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a man.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 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 tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife 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, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 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 power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed 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 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 listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 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, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their names, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, 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, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured dead 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, '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 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
'One morn I missed him on the customed 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 aged thorn.'
_Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) 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._
Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings! From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take; The laughing flowers that round them blow Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
Oh sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curbed the fury of his car And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing; Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Tempered to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen, On Cytherea's day, With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures Frisking light in frolic measures: Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet; To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay; With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way; O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Man's feeble race what ills await: Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war,
In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles that crown th' Aegean deep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Maeander'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 breathed around, Every shade and hallowed fountain Murmured 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, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon strayed, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. '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.'
Nor second he that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He passed 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, Closed 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 clothed, and long-resounding pace! III. 3
Hark! his hands the lyre explore: Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn. But, ah, 'tis heard no more! O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride nor ample pinion That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through 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 unborrowed 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.
'Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though 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 scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance; 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.
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 heard and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), 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 awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay.
'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head: On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore and ghastly pale; Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famished eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— No more I weep: they do not sleep! On yonder cliffs, a grisly 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.
'Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race; Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace: Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through 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 Heaven: what terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
'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 Warrior fled? Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. 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, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
'Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair 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 havoc urge their destined course, And through 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! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled Boar in infant gore Wallows beneath thy thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom!
'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof: the thread is spun) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, 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 Snowdon's height, Descending slow, their glittering 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, Britannia's issue, hail!
'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 lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play! 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 Heaven her many-coloured wings.
'The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 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, Raised by thy breath, has quenched 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: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; To triumph and to die are mine.' He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
How the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darkened air.
Glittering lances are the loom, Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.
See the grisly texture grow, ('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head.
Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a monarch bore, Keep the tissue close and strong.
Mista black, terrific maid, Sangrida, and Hilda see, Join the wayward work to aid: 'Tis the woof of victory.
Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
(Weave the crimson web of war.) Let us go, and let us fly, Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of fate we tread, Wading through th' ensanguined field: Gondula, and Geira, spread O'er the youthful king your shield.
We the reins to slaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live. (Weave the crimson web of war.)
They, whom once the desert-beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain.
Low the dauntless earl is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound: Fate demands a nobler head; Soon a king shall bite the ground.
Long his loss shall Erin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality!
Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters,—weave the web of death; Sisters, cease, the work is done.
Hail the task, and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands; Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song. Scotland, through each winding Tale Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed. Hurry, hurry to the field.
Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing; With vermeil cheek and whisper soft She wooes the tardy Spring; Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground, And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, In rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance, The birds his presence greet; But chief the sky-lark warbles high His trembling, thrilling ecstasy, And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light.
Rise, my soul! on wings of fire Rise the rapturous choir among! Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre, And leads the general song. [Four lines lacking in the MS.]
Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow No yesterday nor morrow know; 'Tis man alone that joy descries With forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune's brow Soft Reflection's hand can trace, And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still where rosy Pleasure leads See a kindred Grief pursue; Behind the steps that Misery treads, Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And, blended, form with artful strife The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tossed On the thorny bed of pain At length repair his vigour lost And breathe and walk again: The meanest flowret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale. The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise.
Humble Quiet builds her cell Near the source whence Pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes.
[The rest is lacking.]