 | The poems (1969) |  |
7 Ode to Pity
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1
O thou, the friend of man assigned,With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe:
When first Distress with dagger keen
Broke forth to waste his destined scene,
His wild unsated foe!
2
By Pella's bard, a magic name,By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
416
And eyes of dewy light!
3
But wherefore need I wander wideTo old Ilissus' distant side,
Deserted stream and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, midst my native plains,
Been soothed by Pity's lute.
4
There first the wren thy myrtles shedOn gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shown;
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With youth's soft notes unspoiled by art,
Thy turtles mixed their own.
5
Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,Even now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride design:
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat
In all who view the shrine.
6
There Picture's toils shall well relateHow chance or hard involving fate
O'er mortal bliss prevail:
The buskined Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand
With each disastrous tale.
7
There let me oft, retired by day,In dreams of passion melt away,
Allowed with thee to dwell:
418
Till, virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!
| The poems (1969) | |