THOMAS
GRAY.

1716-1771.

ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST.

IN vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire,
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require ;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear,

To warm their little loves the birds complain;

I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

WILLIAM
MASON.

1725-1797.

ANNIVERSARY.

A PLAINTIVE Sonnet flowed from Milton's pen

When Time had stolen his three and twentieth year :

Say shall not I then shed one tuneful tear,

Robbed by the thief of three-score years and ten?

No! for the foes of all life-lengthened men,

Trouble and toil, approach not yet too near;

Reason, meanwhile, and health, and memory dear,
Hold unimpaired their weak, yet wonted reign:
Still round my sheltered lawn I pleased can stray ;
Still trace my sylvan blessings to their spring:

BEING OF BEINGS! yes, that silent lay,

Which musing Gratitude delights to sing,

Still to thy sapphire throne shall Faith convey,

And Hope, the cherub of unwearied wing.

ON REVISITING THE RIVER LODDON.

THOMAS AH! what a weary race my feet have run,

WARTON.

1728-1790.

Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun,-

Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!

While pensive Memory traces back the round,
Which fills the varied interval between,

Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return to cheer my evening road;

Yet still one joy remains—that not obscure,

Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,

From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature,

Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S

THOMAS WARTON.

MONASTICON.

DEEM not devoid of elegance the sage,

1728-1790. By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled,

Of painful pedantry the poring child,

Who turns of these proud domes the historic page,
Now sunk by Time and Henry's fiercer rage.

Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiled

On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage

His thoughts on themes unclassic falsely styled,
Intent. While cloistered Piety displays

Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.

Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways

Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers.

WILLIAM COWPER. 1731-1800.

TO MARY UNWIN.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,

In verse as musical as thou art true,

And that immortalizes whom it sings ;-
But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;

And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.