[Footnote 148:  Marie Antoinette.]

* * * * *

THOMAS GRAY.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

  Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
    That crown the watery glade,
  Where grateful Science still adores
    Her Henry’s[149] holy shade;
  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 beloved in vain,
  Where once my careless childhood strayed,
    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 soothe,
  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 morning labors ply
  ’Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
    To sweeten liberty: 
  Some bold adventurers disdain
  The limits of their little reign,
    And unknown regions dare discry: 
  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 ill to come,
    Nor care beyond to-day: 
  Yet see how all around them wait
  The ministers of human fate,
    And black Misfortune’s baleful train! 
  Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
  To seize their prey the murth’rous band! 
    Ah, tell them they are men!

  These shall the fury Passions tear,
    The vultures of the mind,
  Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
    And Shame that skulks behind;
  Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
  Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
    That only gnaws the secret heart,
  And Envy wan, and faded Care,
  Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair,
    And Sorrow’s piercing dart.