Babbling out the very heart, Yet too innocent to blush; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, 282 COLLEY CIBBER [1671-1757] THE BLIND BOY O SAY what is that thing call'd Light, What are the blessings of the sight, You talk of wondrous things you see, My day or night myself I make With me 'twere always day. 283 With heavy sighs I often hear Then let not what I cannot have JAMES THOMSON RULE, BRITANNIA WHEN Britain first at Heaven's command The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free The dread and envy of them all. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke: As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; And work their woe and thy renown. To thee belongs the rural reign; The Muses, still with Freedom found, Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd And manly hearts to guard the fair:Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves! 284 To FORTUNE FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove And when we meet a mutual heart Bid us sigh on from day to day, But busy, busy, still art thou, To join the gentle to the rude. For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, Make but the dear Amanda mine. 285 THOMAS GRAY [1716-1771] ELEGY (Written in a Country Church-yard) THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath, Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. |