Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 85 To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless Child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. ‘This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: 90 Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.’ Nor second he, that rode sublime 95 Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of the abyss to spy. He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, 100 He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car, Wide o’er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, 105 With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 110 But ah! ’tis heard no more-- O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, 115 Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun: 120 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far!--but far above the great. _Thomas Gray._ CLVIII _SONNET._ When I behold thee, blameless Williamson, Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore, While others round on borrowed pinions soar, My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun; Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun, 5 While thus she speaks,--‘Those wings that from the store Of virtue were not lent, howe’er they bore In this gross air, will melt when near the sun. The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time, Content by certain, though by slow, degrees 10 To mount above the reach of vulgar flight; Nor is that man confined to this low clime, Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees, And hears celestial echoes with delight.’ _Benjamin Stillingfleet._ CLIX _TO THE RIVER LODON._