On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, " Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, “There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite 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 churchway-path we saw him borne. Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn: THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; He gave to misery all he had - a tear; He gained from Heaven - 'twas all he wished a friend. No further 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. 234. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF Eton College. Ye distant spires!'ye antique towers! 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 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, To breathe a second spring. Say, father Thames! for thou hast seen The captive linnet which inthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some, on earnest business bent, Their murmuring labors ply, 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint, Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry, Still as they run they look behind, Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast; And lively cheer, of vigor born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait, And black Misfortune's baleful train! * To each his sufferings; all are men The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise - 235. The Progress of Poesy. I. Awake, Æolian lyre! awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings! A thousand rills their mazy progress take; 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. II. Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Meander's amber waves Murmured deep a solemn sound, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. III. 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 This pencil take (she said) whose colors clear Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy! 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; 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 pac Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Thoughts that breathe and words that burn; O lyre divine! what dying spirit Wakes thee now? though he inherit 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. WILLIAM COWPER. 1731-1800. (Manual, p. 357.) FROM "THE TASK." 236. ON The Receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk, the Gift of MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. O that those lips had language! Life has passed To quench it) here shines on me still the same. O welcome guest, though unexpected here! I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: A momentary dream, that thou.art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, |