E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature | Fair Science frowned not on his humble cries, birth, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. And Melancholy marked 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 gained from Heaven ('t was 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. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, Her Henry's holy shade; Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow- Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! I feel the gales that from ye blow Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace, What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? WILLIAM COLLINS. While some, on earnest business bent, Some bold adventurers disdain Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, The sunshine of the breast. Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train. Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murtherous band; Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And Shame, that skulks behind; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, Lo! in the vale of years 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, To each his sufferings: all are men, The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, WILLIAM COLLINS. [1720-1756.] DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; But female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, When howling winds and beating rain Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Thy gentlest influence own, JAMES MERRICK. [1720-1769.] THE CHAMELEON. OFT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, |