* * * * *
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.
* * * * *
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes, live their wonted fires.
* * * * *
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown.
* * * * *
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere.
* * * * *
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.
* * * * *
The bosom of his Father and his God.
_Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude_.
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.
* * * * *
WILLIAM COLLINS.
1720-1756.
_Ode in 1746_.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blessed!
* * * * *
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
* * * * *
_The Passions_. Line 1.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung.
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