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In the character of his Elegy I rejoice to concur with the common reader; f\>r by the common sense of readers, uncorrupted with literary prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must be finally decided all claim to poetical honours. The 'Church yard* abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas, beginning ' Yet even these bones/ are to me original: I have never seen the notions in any other place; yet he that reads them here persuades himself that he has always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it had been vaiD to blame, and ue^W.s to oraise him.

POEMS.

ODES.

I. ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,

Fair Venus' tiain, appear,
Disclose the long-expected flowers,

And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:

While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,

Cool Zephyi/ through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade;
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech

O'er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the crowd,

How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care:

The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,

And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some shew their gaily-gilded trim,

Quick-glancing to tha sua.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter through life's little day,
In fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the nand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply:
'Poor moralist! and what art '.hou?

A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
"No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:

On hasty wings thy youth is flown;

Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—<-
We frolic, while 'tis May.'

II. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT,

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes,
'TWAS on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers, that blow;

Demurest of the tabby kind,

The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

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