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Impassion'd thought, quick as the lightning's glance,
And warm as summer suns: and every flower
Of Poësy, which by the laurell’d spring
Of Aganippe, or that Roman stream
Tiber, or Tuscan Arno, breath'd of old,
Its fragrance sweet; and every flower, which since
Hath drunk the dew beside the banks of Thames,
Met in his genial breast and blossom’d there.

Happy old man ! for therefore didst thou seek
Ecstatic vision by the baunted stream
Or grove of fairy: then thy nightly ear
(As from the wild notes of some hairy harp)
Thrill'd with strange music; if the tragic plaints
And sounding lyre of those Athenians old,
Rich-minded poets, fathers of the stage,
Rous'd thee enrapturd; or the pastoral reed
Of Mantuan Tityrus charm’d; or Dante fierce,
Or more inajestic Homer swell’d thy soul,
Or Milton's muse of fire.
Happy old man! Yet not in vain to thee
Was Fancy's wand committed : not in vain
Did Science fill thee with her sacred lore:
But if of fair and lovely aught
Of good and virtuous in her hallowd walls, [years,
Through the long space of thrice twelve glorious
Thy Venta nurturd; if transplanted thence
To the fair banks of Isis and of Cam,
It brighter shone; and haply thence again,
Thence baply spread its influence through the land,
That be thy praise. Be it thy praise, that thou
Didst bathe the youthful lip in the fresh spring,
• The pure well-head of Poesy,' didst point,
Like thine own lov'd Longinus, to the steep
Parnassian crag, and led'st thyself the way;

Be it thy praise, that thou didst clear the path
Which leads to Virtue's fane; not her of stern
And stoic aspect dark, till Virtue wears
The gloom of Vice; but such as warms the heart
To acts of love, and peace, and gentleness,
And tenderest charity ; such as around
Thy earthly passage shed her cheerful light,
And such as Wykeham best might love to view.

So thine allotted station didst thou fill,
And now art passed to thy peaceful grave,
In age and honours ripe. Then not for thee
Pour we the tear of sorrow, not with strains
Like those despondent, which the Doric bard
Wept for his Bion, do we tend on thee :
For other hopes are ours, and other views,
Brighter and happier scenes! No earthly chains
Shall in this dreary prison-house confine
Spirits of light; nor shall the heaven-born mind
Oblivious linger in the siient cave
Of endless hopeless sleep. But as the Sun,
Who drove his fierce and fiery-tressed steeds
Glorious along the vault of Heaven, at length
Sinks in the bosom of the western wave;
Anon from forth the chambers of the east
To run his giant course; so didst thou set,
So mayst thou rise in glory!

ODES.

TO FANCY. O PARENT of each lovely Muse ! Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse; O'er all my artless songs preside, My footsteps to thy temple guide ; To offer at thy turf-built shrine, In golden cups no costly wine; No murder'd fatling of the flock, But flowers and honey from the rock. O nymph! with loosely-flowing hair, With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare ; Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd; Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magic wand; Of power to bid fresh gardens blow Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow; Whose rapid wings thy flight convey, Through air, and over earth and sea : While the vast, various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes ; O lover of the desert, hail ! Say, in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, Midst falls of water, you reside ; Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between ;

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Midst forests dark of aged oak',
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appeard,
Nor e'en one straw-rooft cot was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell ;
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor;
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrap'd in some wild, poetic dream;
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear? ;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly.soothing sound !
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy, and white-rob’d Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet.
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads :
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List’ning to the shepherd's song:

1 Milton. Il Penseroso.

7 d.

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