Black and huge along they sweep, Burthens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands The dragon-son of Mona stands; In glittering arms and glory drest, High he rears his ruby crest. There the thundering strokes begin, There the press, and there the din; Talymalfra's rocky shore Echoing to the battle's roar, Where his glowing eye-balls turn, Thousand banners round him burn. Where he points his purple spear, Hasty, hasty rout is there, Marking with indignant eye Fear to stop, and shame to fly. There Confusion, Terrour's child, Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild, Agony, that pants for breath, Despair and honourable Death.

EPITAPH,

AT BECKENHAM, ON MRS. CLARKE 7.

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother, sleeps;
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues lov'd to dwell:
Affection warm, and Faith sincere,
And soft Humanity, were there.
In agony, in death, resign'd,
She felt the wound she left behind.
Her infant image, here below,
Sits smiling on a father's woe;

Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along this lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh, an unavailing tear;
Till Time shall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

Now mouldering fanes and battlements arise, Turrets and arches nodding to their fall, Unpeopled monasteries delude our eyes,

And mimic desolation covers all.

"Ah!" said the sighing peer, "had B-te been true, Nor G's, nor B-d's promises been vain, Far other scenes than this had grac'd our view, And realis'd the horrours which we feign.

"Purg'd by the sword, and purify'd by fire,
Then had we seen proud London's hated walls:
Owls should have hooted in St. Peter's choir,
And foxes stunk and litter'd in St. Paul's."

ODE FOR MUSIC.

PERFORMED IN THE SENATE-HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE, JULY
1, 1769, AT THE INSTALLATION OF HIS GRACE AU-
GUSTUS-HENRY-FITZROY, DUKE OF GRAFTON, CHANCEL-
LOR OF THE UNIVERSITY.

"HENCE, avaunt, ('tis holy ground)
Comus and his midnight-crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad Sedition's cry profane,
Servitude that hugs her chain,

Nor in these consecrated bowers

Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in flowers. Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,

Dare the Muse's walk to stain,

While bright-ey'd Science watches round:
Hence, away, 'tis holy ground!"

From yonder realms of empyrean day

Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay:

There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,

The few, whom genius gave to shine

Through every unborn age and undiscover'd clime.
Rapt in celestial transport they,

Yet hither oft a glance from high
They send of tender sympathy

To bless the place, where on their opening soul
First the genuine ardour stole.

"Twas Milton struck the deep-ton'd shell,
And, as the choral warblings round him swell,
Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime,
And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

"Ye brown o'er-arching groves,

That Contemplation loves,

Where willowy Camus lingers with delight!
Oft at the blush of dawn
I trod your level lawn,

Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd Melan-
choly."

But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth
With solemn steps and slow,

High potentates and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go:
Great Edward', with the lilies on his brow,

Edward the Third; who added the fleur de lys of France to the arms of England. He founded Trinity College.

From haughty Gallia torn,

And sad Chatillon 2, on her bridal morn
That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare 3,
And Anjou's heroine, and the paler rose 5,
The rival of her crown and of her woes,
And either Henry there,
6

The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord,
That broke the bonds of Rome.
(Their tears, their little triumphs o'er,
Their human passions now no more,
Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb)
All that on Granta's fruitful plain
Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd,

And bade these awful fanes and turrets rise,
To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come;
And thus they speak in soft accord
The liquid language of the skies.

"What is grandeur, what is power?
Heavier toil, superior pain.
What the bright reward we gain?
The grateful memory of the good.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bee's collected treasure's sweet,
Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still small voice of Gratitude."

Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud
The venerable Margret 7 see!
"Welcome, my noble son," (she cries aloud)
"To this, thy kindred train, and me:
Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace
A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace.
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round Heaven's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head:

2 Mary de Valentia, countess of Pembroke, daughter of Guy de Chatillon, comte de St. Paul in France: of whom tradition says, that her husband, Audemar de Valentia, earl of Pembroke, was slain at a tournament on the day of his nuptials. She was the foundress of Pembroke College or Hall, under the name of Aula Mariæ de Valentia.

3 Elizabeth de Burg, countess of Clare, was wife of John de Burg, son and heir of the earl of Ulster, and daughter of Gilbert de Clare, earl of Gloucester, by Joan of Acres, daughter of Edward the First. Hence the poet gives her the epithet of princely. She founded Clare Hall.

4 Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry the Sixth, foundress of Queen's College. The poet has celebrated her conjugal fidelity in a former ode.

5 Elizabeth Widville, wife of Edward the Fourth (hence called the paler rose, as being of the house of York). She added to the foundation of Margaret of Anjou.

"Henry the Sixth and Eighth, The former the founder of King's, the latter the greatest benefactor to Trinity College.

7 Countess of Richmond and Derby; the mother of Henry the Seventh, foundress of St. John's and Christ's Colleges.

8 The countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor; hence the application of this line to the duke of Grafton, who claims descent from both these families.

Shall raise from Earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem.

"Lo, Granta waits to lead her blooming band, Not obvious, not obtrusive, she

No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings;
Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind:

She reveres herself and thee.

With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow
The laureat wreath, that Cecil 9 wore, she brings,
And to thy just, thy gentle hand
Submits the fasces of her sway,

While spirits blest above and men below

Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.
Through the wild waves as they roar
With watchful eye and dauntless mien
Thy steady course of honour keep,
Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore:
The star of Brunswick smiles serene,
And gilds the horrours of the deep."

A LONG STORY1.

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ'd the power of fairy hands

9 Lord treasurer Burleigh was chancellor of the. university, in the reign of queen Elizabeth.

I When Mr. Gray had put his last hand to the celebrated Elegy in the Country Church-yard, he communicated it to his friend Mr. Walpole, whose good taste was too much charmed with it to suffer him to withhold the sight of it from his acquaintance; accordingly it was shown about for some time in manuscript, and received with all the applause it so justly merited. Amongst the rest of the fashionable world, for to those only it was at present communicated, lady Cobham, who now lived at the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogis, had read and admired it. She wished to be acquainted with the author; accordingly her relation, miss Speed, and lady Schaub, then at her house, undertook to bring this about by making him the first visit. He happened to be from home when the ladies arrived at his aunt's solitary mansion; and, when he returned, was surpris'd to find, written on one of his papers in the parlour where he usually read, the following note: "Lady Schaub's compliments to Mr. Gray; she is sorry not to have found him at home, to tell him that lady Brown is very well." This necessarily obliged him to return the visit, and soon after induced him to compose a ludicrous account of this little adventure, for the amusement of the ladies in question. He wrote it in ballad measure, and entitled it a Long Story: when it was handed about in manuscript, nothing could be more various than the opinions concerning it; by some it was thought a masterpiece of original humour, by others a wild and fantastic farrago; and when it was published, the sentiments of good judges were equally divided about it. See Mr. Mason's Memoirs, vol. iii. p. 125.

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave lord-keeper led the brawls; The seal and maces danc'd before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and sattin doublet,
Mov'd the stout heart of England's queen,
Though pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!

Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your history whither are you spinning!
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors 4, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind Heaven

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire: But Cobham had the polish given,

And tipp'd her arrow with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her. Melissa is her nom de guerre.

Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long they hid their armour, And veil'd their weapons bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer.

Fame, in the shape of Mr. P-ts,

(By this time all the parish know it) Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd A wicked imp they called a poet:

2

* The mansion-house at Stoke-Pogis, then in the possession of viscountess Cobham. The style of building, which we now call queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton. M.

3 Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing. G. Brawls were a sort of figure-dance, then in Vogue, and probably deemed as elegant as our modern cotillions, or still more modern quadrilles. M.

Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants,
Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer,
And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants.
My lady heard their joint petition,

Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She'd issue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.

The heroines undertook the task,

Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rap'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,

But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

The trembling family they daunt,

They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,

And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.

Each hole and cupboard they explore,

Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurryskurry round the floor,

And o'er the bed and tester clamber;

Into the drawers and china pry,
Papers and books a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,

Or creas'd, like dog's-ears, in a folio.

On the first marching of the troops

The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey'd him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumour says: (who will, believe.) But that they left the door a-jar, Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war.

Short was his joy. He little knew

The power of Magic was no fable; Out of the window, wisk, they flew,

But left a spell upon the table.

The words too eager to unriddle,

The poet felt a strange disorder: Transparent bird-lime form'd the middle, And chains invisible the border.

So cunning was the apparatus,

The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house He went, as if the Devil drove him.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phoebus he preferr'd his case,

And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The godhead would have back'd his quarrel;
But with a blush, on recollection,
Own'd, that his quiver and his laurel

'Gainst four such eyes, were no protection.

bour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name; yet, surely, without any great M.