12 ODE. 



'Twas not the Muse, whose grief and gloom 

 Brought him thus early to the tomb 



But war and wasteful ire, 

 And pestilential fumes of earth., 

 That bred the fever's fire, 

 And on a strangely-fated birth 



The dire destruction cast, that broke a heavenly lyre. 140 



The bard* of Arun's stream 

 Had still prolonged his dream, 

 And in Elysian gardens slept, 



Nor in wild fury wept 



His blasted hopes, and with a mangled brain 

 In manhood's vigour to the grave descended, 



Had not some fearful stain 

 Of earthly elements too sadly blended 

 Its gross material poison in the brain 

 Of that all-brilliant web, wherein were laid 150 



The gleaming hues of heaven's own light 

 In inexpressive splendour bright ; 

 But thus arrives the night, 

 When thro' the blazing skies 

 Were spread a thousand ecstasies 



And countless forms of beauty round 

 Gay earth's expanded scenery crown'd, 

 And in an instant draws the veil, 

 And bids the gathering clouds in massy darkness sail. 



And thouf on Granta's banks, alone 160 



Who spends thy melancholy years 



And tremblest at maternal tears. 

 In mortal fate thou couldst but see 

 That woe was human heritage, 

 And melancholy could agree 

 Alone with the o'ershadow'd stage 

 Where thou wert doom'd thy days to tread, 

 And weary out the thoughts thy fears had bred. 



But interminged with the gloom 



Was many a cheerful beam, that led thee to the tomb. 170 

 O ! eye of exquisite perfection 

 That could in Nature's smiling scenes 

 View her best charms with magical detection ; 

 That by a touch could find the means 

 To bring before th' enraptur'd sense 

 The associate spirit, that from hence 

 To visionary pleasure, takes us, 

 And with unearthly thoughts awakes us 



Up to ideal quintessence : 



But yet to homely joys descends, 180 



To humblest rural duties bends, 



* Collins. t Gray. 



