THOMAS GRAY
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th j abyss to spy.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where Angels tremble while they gaze, He saw, but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore' Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah ' 'tis heard no more
O Lyre divine' what daring Spirit
Wakes thee now ? Tho J he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,
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