5 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak, The woodman lifts his axe on high; The hills re-echo to the stroke; I see--I see the shivers fly! 6 Some rural maid, with apron full, Brings fuel to the homely flame; I see the smoky columns roll, And, through the chinky hut, the beam. 7 Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss, Two well-met hunters talk at ease; Three panting dogs beside repose; One bleeding deer is stretched on grass. 8 A lake at distance spreads to sight, Skirted with shady forests round; In midst, an island's rocky height Sustains a ruin, once renowned. 9 One tree bends o'er the naked walls; Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh; By intervals a fragment falls, As blows the blast along the sky. 10 The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide With labouring oars along the flood; An angler, bending o'er the tide, Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. 11 Beside the flood, beneath the rocks, On grassy bank, two lovers lean; Bend on each other amorous looks, And seem to laugh and kiss between. 12 The wind is rustling in the oak; They seem to hear the tread of feet; They start, they rise, look round the rock; Again they smile, again they meet. 13 But see! the gray mist from the lake Ascends upon the shady hills; Dark storms the murmuring forests shake, Rain beats around a hundred rills. 14 To Damon's homely hut I fly; I see it smoking on the plain; When storms are past and fair the sky, I'll often seek my cave again. [1] 'Herd': neat-herd. WILLIAM MASON. This gentleman is now nearly forgotten, except as the friend, biographer, and literary executor of Gray. He was born in 1725, and died in 1797. His tragedies, 'Elfrida' and 'Caractacus,' are spirited declamations in dramatic form, not dramas. His odes have the turgidity without the grandeur of Gray's. His 'English Garden' is too long and too formal. His Life of Gray was an admirable innovation on the form of biography then prevalent, interspersing, as it does, journals and letters with mere narrative. Mason was a royal chaplain, held the living of Ashton, and was precentor of York Cathedral. We quote the best of his minor poems. EPITAPH ON MRS MASON, IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. 1 Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine: Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm.