rest;

sturdy stroke!

try's blood.

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 name, their years, spelt by the 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 be

hind?

On Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

some fond breast the parting soul relies,

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,
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 the expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey;

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow-
ers 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 inthrall?

What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?