’Twas on the lofty Treasury’s side Where Walpole’s basest arts had tried The wistful Briberies that flow; Most ambitious of the Plaidy kind, The upshot Bute reclined, Gazed on the gold below. His country’s hopes his joy declared, His freckled face, his grizzled beard, The talons of his paws, His Plaid, that with the Rainbow vies, His downcast looks, and jaundiced eyes, He said, and hummed applause. * * * * * ――――:o:―――― ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. [This was the first English production of Mr. Gray that appeared in print, and was published in folio, by Dodsley, in 1747.] Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat’ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her HENRY’S holy shade[32]; 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 belov’d in vain! 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 sooth, 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? While some on earnest business bent, Their murm’ring labours 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 possest; 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 Vigour 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 ’em wait The Ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune’s baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd’rous band! Ah, tell them they are men!