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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest.

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

Along the cool sequestered vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

Nor cast one longing lingering look behind.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E’en in our ashes, live their wonted fires.

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere.

He

gave to misery. (all he had) a tear.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his father and his God.

Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude.
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.

On his own Character.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune ;
He had not the method of making a fortune.

To Mr. West. 3d Series. Letter iv. Now as the Paradisaical pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

1720-1756.

Ode in 1746.
How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blessed !

By fairy hands their knell is rung ;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

The Passions.

Line 1.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung.

Line 10.
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired.

Line 28. ’T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

Line 60. In notes by distance made more sweet.

Line 68.
In hollow murmurs died away.

Line 95.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid !

Eclogue 1. Line 5. Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell ; 'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

Ode on the Death of Thomson.
In yonder grave a Druid lies.

MARK AKENSIDE.

1721-1770.

Epistle to Curio. The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

NATHANIEL COTTON.

1721-1788.

The Fireside. St. 3.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies ;

And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut,

our home.

St. 13.
Thus hand in hand through life we 'll go ;
Its checkered paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread.

JOHN HOME.

1722–1808.

Douglas. Act i. Sc. 1.

In the first days
Of my distracting grief, I found myself
As women wish to be who love their lords.

Act ii. Sc. 1.
My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills
My father fed his flocks.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

1728-1774.

THE TRAVELLER.

Line 1. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.

Line 7.

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee.

Line 22.

And learn the luxury of doing good.

Line 26. Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view.

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