No wailing ghosts shall dare appear No withered witch shall here be seen; The redbreast oft, at evening hours, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds and beating rain, Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore; And mourned till pity's self be dead. 5 ΤΟ 15 20 5 ΙΟ 15 20 THOMAS GRAY ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE YE distant spires, ye antique towers, 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 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 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 The captive linnet which enthrall? 25 And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they run they look behind, They have a voice in every mind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, The sunshine of the breast; And lively cheer of vigour born; 35 40 45 The thoughtless day, the easy night, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day; Yet see how all around 'em wait And black Misfortune's baleful train! These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grimming Infamy, The stings of Falsehood those shall try, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild 75 80 Lo! in the vale of tears beneath A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen. This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85 Yet ah! why should they know their fate? 95 And happiness too swiftly flies. Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. |