THOMAS GRAY

In loose numbers wildly sweet

Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loyes.

Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,

Glory pursue and generous Shame,

Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' ^Egean deep,

Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Mceander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish,

Mute, but to the voice of anguish ? Where each old poetic mountain

Inspiration breathed around : Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound : Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion ! next thy sea-encircled coast.

Far from the sun and summer gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To Him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy ! This can unlock the gates of joy ;

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