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And-prithee, lead me in;
There take an inventory of all I have,
I now dare call my own. Oh Cromwell, Cromwell,
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF
YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
And ye that from the stately brow
His silver-winding way.
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
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
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
While some, on earnest business bent,
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry:
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
Alas, regardless of their doom,
No sense have they of ills to come,
Yet see, how all around them wait
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!
These shall the fury passions tear,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Ambition this shall tempt to rise;
The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd, And moody Madness, laughing wild Amid severest woe.
Lo! in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their queen;
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
To each his sufferings: all are men,
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
ODE TO POVERTY.
HAIL! mighty power! who o'er my lot
Sole ruler of the rural cot,
I bid thee hail, dread Poverty!
When on this world of woe and toil,
The sport and victim of the blast,
In youth I felt thy guardian care,
I learnt and practis'd in thy school;
Much have I seen-much more I've heard, Of chance and change in this vain world; The low to high estate preferr'd
From high estate the haughty hurl'd; But chance or change ne'er pass'd o'er meI'm still thy subject, Poverty!
(Oh how unwise are they who scorn
Thy homely garb and homely fare;
They tread the wild, and plough the wave,
There are who know thee but by name,
Full oft in danger's darkest day
Thy sons have prov'd their country's shield, When wealth's effeminate array
Appear'd not on the battle field:'Twas theirs to grasp the patriot brand, That dropp'd from luxury's nerveless hand.