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Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
To the land o' the leal!
Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
In the land o' the leal.
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way:
Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
To chase the rolling circle's speed
While some on earnest business bent
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty :
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign
And unknown regions dare descry:
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom
No sense have they of ills to come
Yet see how all around 'em wait
The ministers of human fate
And black Misfortune's baleful train !
Ah show them where in ambush stand
These shall the fury Passions tear,
And Shame that sculks behind;
And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try
Lo, in the vale of years beneath
More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age.
To each his sufferings: all are men,
The tender for another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
O happy shades! to me unblest!
Foregoes not what she feels within,
Has lost its beauties and its powers.
The saint or moralist should tread
HYMN TO ADVERSITY
Daughter of Jove, relentless power,
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone,
When first thy Sire to send on earth
And bade to form her infant mind.
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.
Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
The summer friend, the flattering foe;
By vain Prosperity received,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
Wisdom in sable garb array'd
Immersed in rapturous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid,
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the general friend,
With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head
Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Not circled with the vengeful band
(As by the impious thou art seen)
With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty ;
Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,
Thy philosophic train be there
To soften, not to wound my heart. The generous spark extinct revive, Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.