ODE. 13 



And in the peasant's hut can trace 



The elements of happiness ! 



Thou couldst not, in thy deepest grief, 



But find from gifts like this, relief; 



And if the virtuous heart shall gain, 



For its unmingled purity 



Reward in heaven, in seats how high 



Dost thou thy lifted rank maintain ! 



Remembrance of the groveling crew 190 



Who scorned thee in thy days of earth ; 



Who in their hours of empty show 



Thought meanly of thy modest worth ; 



Who swept along, and would not deign 



Without dispite to cast a look, 



Where in thy silent cell 

 Thou didst with melancholy dwell ; 

 And for thy thoughts, and for thy book, 

 The busy crowds of men forsook, 



Where, when ambition's vulgar toil 200 



Rais'd into wealth, and rank, and power, 

 The very creatures of the soil, 

 That in corruption's sunshine bask their hour, 

 Thou wert unknown, unheeded, unbelieved, 

 But still from secret fountains soothed the wretch whose bosom griev'd. 

 The dark despair, by fits 



That sate upon thy brow, 

 Was but a fiend, which always flits 



When the muse hears the vow, 



And to the bosom's shrine alights, 210 



And pours her warmth, and gives her visioned sights. 



Then let me turn to thee, 

 O ! holy muse : with worship due 



Thine altars to pursue, 

 And be thy priest, and love thy beams, 

 And never wander from thy gleams ; 

 And be thou, in my gloomiest hours, Protectress, kind to me. 217 



