The village all declared how much he knew-- 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too; Lands he could measure, times and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still, While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.

EDMUND BURKE.

THE DECAY OF LOYALTY.

[From _Reflections on the Revolution in France_.]

It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France,[148]

then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this...o...b.. which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in; glittering like the morning star, full of life and splendor and joy. O, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall. Little did I dream, when she added t.i.tles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from the scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and s.e.x, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chast.i.ty of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage, whilst it mitigated ferocity, which enn.o.bled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness....On the scheme of this barbarous philosophy, which is the offspring of cold hearts and muddy understandings, and which is as void of solid wisdom as it is dest.i.tute of all taste and elegance, laws are to be supported only by their own terms, and by the concern which each individual may find in them from his own private speculations, or can spare to them from his own private interests. In the groves of their academy, at the end of every vista, you see nothing but the gallows. Nothing is left which engages the affections on the part of the commonwealth. On the principles of this mechanic philosophy, our inst.i.tutions can never be embodied, if I may use the expresssion, in persons; so as to create in us love, veneration, admiration, or attachment. But that sort of reason which banishes the affections is incapable of filling their place. These public affections, combined with manners, are required sometimes as supplements, sometimes as corrections, always as aids, to law. The precept given by a wise man, as well as a great critic, for the construction of poems, is equally true as to states. _Non satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto_. There ought to be a system of manners in every nation which a well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely.

[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 h.o.a.ry 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 gla.s.sy 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 Pa.s.sions 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.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy, The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 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, That every laboring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan, The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate?

Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies, Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

[Footnote 149: Henry VI., founder of Eton College.]

WILLIAM COWPER.

FROM LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O, that those lips had language! Life has pa.s.sed With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"

My mother! When I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hea.r.s.e that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived; By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

WINTER EVENING.

[From _The Task_.]

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steaming column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in....

O winter! ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheek Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way; I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.

I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know.

MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN.

[From _The Task_.]

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, My soul is sick with every day's report Of wrong or outrage with which earth is filled.

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire.