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.181.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;

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!
Ah fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from you 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
Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed
Or urge the flying ball ?

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"Ye distant spires, ye ancient towers That crown the watery glade.'

Ode on a Distant View of Eton College.

While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labors ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign
And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possessed,
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigor born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come
Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate

And black misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;

Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth

That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim visaged comfortless Despair,
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,
And hard unkindness' altered eye,
That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of death,

More hideous than their queen;

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every laboring 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,
Condemned alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,

Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their paradise!
No more ;-where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

Thomas Gray.

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