The poems (1969) :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘Ye Persian maids, attend your poet's lays,
And hear how shepherds pass their golden days:
Not all are blest, whom fortune's hand sustains
With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the plains:
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell;
'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.’

Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspired;
No praise the youth, but hers alone, desired.
Wise in himself, his meaning songs conveyed
Informing morals to the shepherd maid,
Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find,
What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind.

When sweet and odorous, like an eastern bride,

373

The radiant morn resumed her orient pride,
When wanton gales along the valleys play,
Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away:
By Tigris' wandering waves he sat, and sung
This useful lesson for the fair and young.

‘Ye Persian dames,’ he said, ‘to you belong,
Well may they please, the morals of my song;
No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found,
Graced with soft arts, the peopled world around!
The morn that lights you to your loves supplies
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:
For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow,
And yours the love that kings delight to know.
Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are,
The best kind blessings heaven can grant the fair!
Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray,
Balsora's pearls have more of worth than they;
Drawn from the deep, they sparkle to the sight,
And all-unconscious shoot a lustrous light:
Such are the maids and such the charms they boast,
By sense unaided or to virtue lost.

374

Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain
That love shall blind when once he fires the swain,
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,
As spots on ermine beautify the skin.
Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair,
Each tender passion man delights to find,
The loved perfections of a female mind.

‘Blest were the days when Wisdom held her reign,
And shepherds sought her on the silent plain;
With Truth she wedded in the secret grove,
The fair-eyed Truth, and daughters blessed their love.

‘O haste, fair maids, ye Virtues, come away,
Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way!
The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore,
By Ind excelled or Araby no more.

375

‘Lost to our fields, for so the fates ordain,
The dear deserters shall return again.
O come thou, Modesty, as they decree,
The rose may then improve her blush by thee.
Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen.
With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,
Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid,
But man the most—not more the mountain doe
Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.
Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;
A silken veil conceals her from the view.
No wild desires amidst thy train be known,
But Faith, whose heart is fixed on one alone;
Desponding Meekness with her down-cast eyes,
And friendly Pity full of tender sighs;
And Love the last: by these your hearts approve,
These are the Virtues that must lead to love.’

Thus sung the swain, and eastern legends say
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along,
The shepherds loved, and Selim blessed his song.

376

ECLOGUE THE SECOND

HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER

SCENE, the Desert TIME, Mid-day

In silent horror o'er the desert-waste
The driver Hassan with his camels passed.
One cruse of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contained a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gained the middle sky,
And not a tree and not an herb was nigh.
The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roared the winds and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, the affrighted man
Thrice sighed, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:

377

‘Sad was the hour and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.

‘Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst or pinching hunger that I find!
Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,
When fails this cruse, his unrelenting rage?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign,
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?

‘Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal share!
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more blest or verdant vales bestow.
Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.
Sad was the hour and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.

378

‘Cursed be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade.
The Lily-Peace outshines the silver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore.
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart and wealthy town:
Full oft we tempt the land and oft the sea;
And are we only yet repaid by thee?
Ah! why was ruin so attractive made,
Or why fond man so easily betrayed?
Why heed we not, whilst mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of Peace or Pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmurs and the valley's pride,
Why think we these less pleasing to behold
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?
Sad was the hour and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.

‘O cease, my fears! all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumbered scenes of woe,
What if the lion in his rage I meet!
Oft in the dust I view his printed feet:
And fearful! oft, when Day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner Night,

379

By hunger roused, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train:
Before them death with shrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell and leads them to their prey.
Sad was the hour and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

‘At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep;
Or some swoll'n serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From lust of wealth and dread of death secure.
They tempt no deserts and no griefs they find;
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.
Sad was the hour and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.

‘O hapless youth! for she thy love hath won,
The tender Zara, will be most undone!
Big swelled my heart and owned the powerful maid,
When fast she dropped her tears, as thus she said:
“Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain,
“Whom Zara's breaking heart implored in vain;
“Yet as thou goest, may every blast arise,
“Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs!
“Safe o'er the wild, no perils mayst thou see,
“No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me.”
O let me safely to the fair return,
Say with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn.

380

Go teach my heart to lose its painful fears,
Recalled by Wisdom's voice and Zara's tears.’

He said, and called on heaven to bless the day,
When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.

ECLOGUE THE THIRD

ABRA; OR, THE GEORGIAN SULTANA

SCENE, a forest TIME, the Evening

In Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are seen,
In distant view along the level green,
While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,
And the tall forests cast a longer shade,
Amidst the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,
Emyra sung the pleasing cares of love.

Of Abra first began the tender strain,
Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain.
At morn she came those willing flocks to lead,
Where lilies rear them in the watery mead;
From early dawn the livelong hours she told,
Till late at silent ev'n she penned the fold.

381

Deep in the grove beneath the secret shade,
A various wreath of odorous flowers she made.
Gay-motleyed pinks and sweet jonquils she chose,
The violet-blue that on the moss-bank grows;
All-sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there;
The finished chaplet well-adorned her hair.

Great Abbas chanced that fated morn to stray,
By love conducted from the chase away;
Among the vocal vales he heard her song,
And sought the vales and echoing groves among.
At length he found and wooed the rural maid:
She knew the monarch, and with fear obeyed.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.

The royal lover bore her from the plain,
Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain:
Oft as she went, she backward turned her view,
And bade that crook and bleating flock adieu.
Fair happy maid! to other scenes remove,
To richer scenes of golden power and love!

382

Go leave the simple pipe and shepherd's strain,
With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.

Yet midst the blaze of courts she fixed her love
On the cool fountain or the shady grove;
Still with the shepherd's innocence her mind
To the sweet vale and flowery mead inclined,
And oft as spring renewed the plains with flowers,
Breathed his soft gales and led the fragrant hours,
With sure return she sought the sylvan scene,
The breezy mountains and the forests green.
Her maids around her moved, a duteous band!
Each bore a crook all-rural in her hand.
Some simple lay of flocks and herds they sung;
With joy the mountain and the forest rung.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.

And oft the royal lover left the care
And thorns of state, attendant on the fair:
Oft to the shades and low-roofed cots retired,
Or sought the vale where first his heart was fired;
A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,
And thought of crowns and busy courts no more.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.

383

Blest was the life that royal Abbas led:
Sweet was his love and innocent his bed.
What if in wealth the noble maid excel;
The simple shepherd girl can love as well.
Let those who rule on Persia's jewelled throne,
Be famed for love and gentlest love alone:
Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.

Oh happy days! the maids around her say,
Oh haste, profuse of blessings, haste away!
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.

ECLOGUE THE FOURTH

AGIB AND SECANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES

SCENE, a Mountain in Circassia TIME, Midnight

In fair Circassia, where, to love inclined,
Each swain was blest, for every maid was kind!
At that still hour, when awful midnight reigns,
And none but wretches haunt the twilight plains;
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
And passed in radiance through the cloudless sky:
Sad o'er the dews two brother shepherds fled,
Where wildering fear and desperate sorrow led.
Fast as they pressed their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravaged plains and valleys stole away.
Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,
Till faint and weak Secander thus began.

SECANDER

O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart, O turn thee and survey,
Trace our sad flight through all its length of way!
And first review that long-extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already passed with pain!
Yon ragged cliff whose dangerous path we tried,
And last this lofty mountain's weary side!

384

AGIB
Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know
The toils of flight, or some severer woe!
Still as I haste, the Tartar shouts behind,
And shrieks and sorrows load the saddening wind:
In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,
He blasts our harvests and deforms our land.
Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came,
Droops its fair honours to the conquering flame:
Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair,
And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.

SECANDER
Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword,
In vain, unheard, thou call'st thy Persian Lord!
In vain thou court'st him, helpless to thine aid,
To shield the shepherd and protect the maid.
Far off in thoughtless indolence resigned,
Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe his mind:
Midst fair sultanas lost in idle joy,
No wars alarm him and no fears annoy.

385

AGIB
Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat,
Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat.
Sweet to the sight is Zabran's flowery plain,
And once by maids and shepherds loved in vain!
No more the virgins shall delight to rove
By Sargis' banks or Irwan's shady grove:
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,
Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale:
Fair scenes! but ah! no more with peace possessed,
With ease alluring and with plenty blest.
No more the shepherds' whitening tents appear,
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;
No more the date with snowy blossoms crowned,
But Ruin spreads her baleful fires around.

SECANDER
In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves,
For ever famed for pure and happy loves;
In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair,

386

Their eyes' blue languish and their golden hair!
Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send;
Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.

AGIB

Ye Georgian swains that piteous learn from far
Circassia's ruin and the waste of war:
Some weightier arms than crooks and staves prepare,
To shield your harvests and defend your fair:
The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue,
Fixed to destroy and steadfast to undo.
Wild as his land, in native deserts bred,
By lust incited or by malice led,
The villain-Arab, as he prowls for prey,
Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way;
Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,
To death inured and nursed in scenes of woe.

He said, when loud along the vale was heard
A shriller shriek and nearer fires appeared:
The affrighted shepherds through the dews of night,
Wide o'er the moonlight hills, renewed their flight.

3 An Epistle:

Addressed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakespeare's Works

389

Sir,

While born to bring the Muse's happier days,
A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays:
While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwithered o'er his honoured tomb:

390

Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell
What secret transports in her bosom swell:
With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare's name.
Hard was the lot those injured strains endured,
Unowned by Science and by years obscured:
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confessed
A fixed despair in every tuneful breast.
Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frosts the ruined seats invade
Where Peace resorted and the Graces played.

391

Each rising art by just gradation moves,
Toil builds on toil and age on age improves:
The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impart
Each changeful wish of Phaedra's tortured heart;
Or paint the curse that marked the Theban's reign,
A bed incestuous and a father slain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the sad tale and own another's woe.

To Rome removed, with wit secure to please,
The comic Sisters kept their native ease.
With jealous fear declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander's art almost excelled!
But every muse essayed to raise in vain
Some laboured rival of her tragic strain;

392

Ilissus' laurels, though transferred with toil,
Drooped their fair leaves nor knew the unfriendly soil.

As arts expired, resistless dulness rose;
Goths, priests or Vandals,—all were learning's foes.
Till Julius first recalled each exiled Maid,
And Cosmo owned them in the Etrurian shade.

393

Then deeply skilled in love's engaging theme,
The soft Provencial passed to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung,
Sweet flowed the lays—but love was all he sung.
The gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

But heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy and Athenian strength:
One greater muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And even a Shakespeare to her fame be born!

Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hoped an equal day!
No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.
Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order as the next in name.
With pleased attention midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought that warms the female mind;

394

Each melting sigh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wishes and the virgin's fear.
His every strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
The unrivalled picture of his early hand.

With gradual steps and slow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold and just in all she drew.
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's spirit fired,

395

Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired:
And classic judgment gained to sweet Racine
The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line.

But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give
The historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurelled Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honours and so soon to die.
Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king?
The time shall come when Gloucester's heart shall bleed
In life's last hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak sword and break the oppressive spear.

396

Where'er we turn, by Fancy charmed, we find
Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove
With humbler nature in the rural grove;
Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dressed by her hand, the woods and valleys smile,
And spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle.

O more than all in powerful genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy songs support me and thy morals heal!

397

There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native music dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous drafts might rise from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!

Methinks even now I view some free design,
Where breathing nature lives in every line:
Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,
Steal into shade and mildly melt away.

398

—And see, where Antony in tears approved,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved:
O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murthered friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe and points the bleeding wound.

But who is he, whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injured worth can feel,

399

On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel.
Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall
(So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall.
See the fond mother midst the plaintive train
Hung on his knees and prostrate on the plain!
Touched to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection in the Roman's pride:
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus, generous critic, as thy bard inspires,
The sister arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints or wake the vocal string:
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind),
By thee disposed, no farther toil demand,
But, just to nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,
Even Homer's numbers charmed by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wandered more,
By winds and water cast on every shore:
When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer joined

400

Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the poet's name.

4 A Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline

Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead

401

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;

402

But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:
With hoary moss and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:

403

Beloved, till life could charm no more,
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.

5 Song.

The Sentiments Borrowed from Shakespeare

404

Young Damon of the vale is dead,
Ye lowland hamlets moan:
A dewy turf lies o'er his head,
And at his feet a stone.

His shroud, which death's cold damps destroy,
Of snow-white threads was made:
All mourned to see so sweet a boy
In earth for ever laid.

Pale pansies o'er his corpse were placed,
Which, plucked before their time,

405

Bestrewed the boy, like him to waste
And wither in their prime.

But will he ne'er return, whose tongue
Could tune the rural lay?
Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung,
His lips are cold as clay.

They bore him out at twilight hour,
The youth who loved so well:
Ah, me! how many a true-love shower
Of kind remembrance fell!

Each maid was woe—but Lucy chief,
Her grief o'er all was tried;
Within his grave she dropped in grief,
And o'er her loved-one died.

406

6 Written on a Paper which Contained a Piece of Bride Cake given to the Author by a Lady

Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,
By search profane shall find this hallowed cake,
With virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,
Nor dare a theft for love and pity's sake!

407

This precious relic, formed by magic power,
Beneath her shepherd's haunted pillow laid,
Was meant by love to charm the silent hour,
The secret present of a matchless maid.

The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request,
Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;
Fears, sighs and wishes of the enamoured breast,
And pains that please, are mixed in every part.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,
From Paphian hills and fair Cythera's isle;
And tempered sweet with these the melting thought,
The kiss ambrosial and the yielding smile;

Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,
Denials mild and firm unaltered truth,
Reluctant pride and amorous faint consent,
And meeting ardours and exulting youth.

Sleep, wayward god! hath sworn, while these remain,
With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear,
And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,
With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear.

If, bound by vows to friendship's gentle side,
And fond of soul, thou hop'st an equal grace,
If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,
O much intreated, leave this fatal place.

408

Sweet Peace, who long hath shunned my plaintive day,
Consents at length to bring me short delight:
Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,
And grief with raven note usurp the night.

Odes on Several Descriptive and Allegoric Subjects

414

------ Ειην
Ευρησιεπης αναγεισθαι
Προσφορος εν Μοισαν Διφρω:
Τολμα δε και αμφιλαφης Δυναμις
Εσποιτο. ------

7 Ode to Pity

415

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

Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

3

But wherefore need I wander wide
To 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 shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shown;

417

And while he sung the female heart,
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 relate
How 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

There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!

8 Ode to Fear

Thou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who see'st appalled the unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between:
Ah Fear! Ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disordered fly.
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!

419

Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fixed behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep;
And with him thousand phantoms joined,
Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind;
And those, the fiends who, near allied,
O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside;
Whilst Vengeance in the lurid air
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare,

420

On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild like thee?

EPODE

In earliest Greece to thee with partial choice
The grief-full Muse addressed her infant tongue;
The maids and matrons on her awful voice,
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the bard who first invoked thy name,
Disdained in Marathon its power to feel:
For not alone he nursed the poet's flame,
But reached from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

But who is he whom later garlands grace,
Who left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove,
With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,
Where thou and Furies shared the baleful grove?

421

Wrapped in thy cloudy veil the incestuous queen
Sighed the sad call her son and husband heard,
When once alone it broke the silent scene,
And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more appeared.

O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,
Thy withering power inspired each mournful line,
Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!

ANTISTROPHE

Thou who such weary lengths hast passed,
Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?

422

Or in some hollowed seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought!
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought
Be mine to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told:
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'erawed,
In that thrice-hallowed eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,

423

Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt, from fire or fen
Or mine or flood, the walks of men!

O thou whose spirit most possessed
The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke,
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

9 Ode to Simplicity

1

O thou by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought,
In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong:

424

Who first on mountains wild
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thy babe or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!

2

Thou, who with hermit heart
Disdain'st the wealth of art,
And gauds and pageant weeds and trailing pall:
But com'st a decent maid
In Attic robe arrayed,
O chaste unboastful nymph, to thee I call!

3

By all the honeyed store

425

On Hybla's thymy shore,
By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;
By her, whose love-lorn woe
In evening musings slow
Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

4

By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep
In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat,
On whose enamelled side
When holy Freedom died
No equal haunt allured thy future feet.

426

5

O sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though Beauty culled the wreath,
Still ask thy hand to range their ordered hues.

6

While Rome could none esteem
But Virtue's patriot theme,
You loved her hills and led her laureate band:
But stayed to sing alone
To one distinguished throne,
And turned thy face, and fled her altered land.

7

No more, in hall or bower,
The passions own thy power,
Love, only love, her forceless numbers mean:
For thou hast left her shrine,
Nor olive more nor vine
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

427

8

Though taste, though genius bless
To some divine excess,
Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
What each, what all supply
May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou can'st raise the meeting soul!

9

Of these let others ask
To aid some mighty task:
I only seek to find thy temperate vale,
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.

10 Ode on the Poetical Character

[1]

As once, if not with light regard
I read aright that gifted bard,

428

(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest Elfin Queen has blessed)
One, only one, unrivalled fair
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At solemn tourney hung on high,
The wish of each love-darting eye;

429

Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand,
Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame,
With whispered spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loathed, dishonoured side;
Happier hopeless fair, if never
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour
Had touched that fatal zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,
To whom, prepared and bathed in heaven,
The cest of amplest power is given,
To few the godlike gift assigns
To gird their blest prophetic loins,
And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her flame!

2

The band, as fairy legends say,

430

Was wove on that creating day
When He, who called with thought to birth
Yon tented sky, this laughing earth,
And dressed with springs and forests tall,

431

And poured the main engirting all,
Long by the loved Enthusiast wooed,
Himself in some diviner mood,
Retiring, sat with her alone,
And placed her on his sapphire throne,

432

The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to sound,
Now sublimest triumph swelling,
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And she, from out the veiling cloud,
Breathed her magic notes aloud:
And thou, thou rich-haired youth of morn,
And all thy subject life was born!
The dangerous Passions kept aloof,
Far from the sainted growing woof;
But near it sat ecstatic Wonder,

433

Listening the deep applauding thunder;
And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed,
By whose the tarsel's eyes were made;
All the shadowy tribes of Mind
In braided dance their murmurs joined,
And all the bright uncounted powers,
Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers.
Where is the bard, whose soul can now
Its high presuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallowed work for him designed?

3

High on some cliff to Heaven up-piled,

434

Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep,
And holy genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread;
I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,

435

From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew,
Nigh sphered in heaven its native strains could hear:
On which that ancient trump he reached was hung;
Thither oft his glory greeting,
From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,
With many a vow from hope's aspiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue:
In vain—such bliss to one alone
Of all the sons of soul was known,
And Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturned the inspiring bowers,
Or curtained close such scene from every future view.

436

11 Ode, Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746

437

1

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

2

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

12 Ode to Mercy

439

STROPHE

O thou, who sitt'st a smiling bride
By Valour's armed and awful side,
Gentlest of sky-born forms and best adored:
Who oft with songs, divine to hear,
Winn'st from his fatal grasp the spear,
And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!
Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy bosom bare art found,
Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground:
See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands,
And decks thy altar still, though pierced with many a wound!

440

ANTISTROPHE

When he whom even our joys provoke,

441

The Fiend of Nature, joined his yoke,
And rushed in wrath to make our isle his prey,
Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blasted road,
And stopped his wheels, and looked his rage away.
I see recoil his sable steeds,
That bore him swift to salvage deeds;
Thy tender melting eyes they own.
O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,
To thee we build a roseate bower,
Thou, thou shalt rule our Queen and share our Monarch's throne!

13 Ode to Liberty

442

STROPHE

Who shall awake the Spartan fife,
And call in solemn sounds to life
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom loved of old to view?
What new Alcaeus, Fancy-blest,

443

Shall sing the sword in myrtles dressed,
At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing,
(What place so fit to seal a deed renowned?)
Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,
It leaped in glory forth and dealt her prompted wound!
O goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,

444

Let not my shell's misguided power
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell
How Rome, before thy weeping face,
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,
Pushed by a wild and artless race
From off its wide ambitious base,
When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke,
And all the blended work of strength and grace,
With many a rude repeated stroke
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.

EPODE 2

Yet even, where'er the least appeared,
The admiring world thy hand revered;
Still midst the scattered states around
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They saw by what escaped the storm
How wondrous rose her perfect form;
How in the great, the laboured whole,
Each mighty master poured his soul!
For sunny Florence, seat of art,

445

Beneath her vines preserved a part,
Till they, whom Science loved to name,
(O who could fear it?) quenched her flame.
And lo, an humbler relic laid
In jealous Pisa's olive shade!
See small Marino joins the theme,
Though least, not last in thy esteem;
Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings
To those whose merchant sons were kings;

446

To him who, decked with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-haired bride;
Hail, port of glory, wealth and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure:
Nor e'er her former pride relate
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah no! more pleased thy haunts I seek
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak
(Where, when the favoured of thy choice,
The daring archer, heard thy voice,
Forth from his eyrie roused in dread,
The ravening Eagle northward fled);

447

Or dwell in willowed meads more near,
With those to whom thy stork is dear:
Those whom the rod of Alva bruised,
Whose crown a British queen refused!
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holier name alone remains;
The perfect spell shall then avail.
Hail nymph, adored by Britain, hail!

ANTISTROPHE

Beyond the measure vast of thought,

448

The works the wizard Time has wrought!
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain linked to his now adverse strand,
No sea between nor cliff sublime and hoary:
He passed with unwet feet through all our land.
To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding;

449

Till all the banded West at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild storm even Nature's self confounding,
Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.
This pillared earth so firm and wide,
By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was pushed aside,
And down the shouldering billows borne.

450

And see, like gems, her laughing train,
The little isles on every side,
Mona, once hid from those who search the main,
Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
And Wight who checks the westering tide,

451

For thee consenting heaven has each bestowed,
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride:
To thee this blest divorce she owed,
For thou hast made her vales thy loved, thy last abode!

SECOND EPODE

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile
Midst the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing goddess stood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self o'erturned the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,

452

'Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once and charm the muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie
Paving the light-embroidered sky,
Amidst the bright pavilioned plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest
Or bowers by spring or Hebe dressed,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retired in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to the immortal string.

How may the poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted and amazed,

453

What hands unknown that fabric raised?
Even now before his favoured eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Græcia's graceful orders join
Majestic through the mixed design.
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues;
Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, graved with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.

Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain:
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep

454

Even Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balm
Rage drops his steel and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravaged shore,
Our youths, enamoured of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair;
Till in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around:
‘O how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the West!’

14 Ode, to a Lady on the Death of Colonel Ross in the Action of Fontenoy

457

1

While, lost to all his former mirth,
Britannia's Genius bends to earth
And mourns the fatal day;
While stained with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May;

2

The thoughts which musing Pity pays
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the softened mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

458

3

By rapid Scheldt's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

4

Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,
Aerial hands shall build thy tomb,
With shadowy trophies crowned:

459

Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall rove
To sigh thy name through every grove
And call his heroes round.

5

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest:
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear
To hail the blooming guest.

6

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Crecy's laurelled field,
And gaze with fixed delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.

460

7

But lo! where, sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sod which wraps the dead
She turns her joyless eyes.

8

Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restored;
Till William seek the sad retreat
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.

9

If, weak to soothe so soft an heart,
These pictured glories nought impart

461

To dry thy constant tear;
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Exposed and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild War insulting near;

10

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,
Her gentlest promise keep:
Even humble Harting's cottaged vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.

15 Ode to Evening

463

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs and dying gales,
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed;

464

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale
May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding star arising shows

465

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in flowers the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The Pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile,

466

Or upland fallows grey,
Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blustering winds or driving rain
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,

467

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipped Health,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy favourite name!

16 Ode to Peace

468

[1]

O thou, who bad'st thy turtles bear
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,
And sought'st thy native skies:
When War, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bade his storms arise!

2

Tired of his rude tyrannic sway,
Our youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn:
But thou who hear'st the turning spheres,
What sounds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy blest return!

3

O Peace, thy injured robes upbind,
O rise, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train:
The British lion, goddess sweet,
Lies stretched on earth to kiss thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.

469

4

Let others court thy transient smile,
But come to grace thy western isle,
By warlike Honour led!
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her sons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

17 The Manners.

An Ode

470

Farewell, for clearer ken designed,
The dim-discovered tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retired,
My silent search in vain required!

471

No more my sail that deep explores,
No more I search those magic shores,
What regions part the world of soul,
Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round such fairy field,
Some power impart the spear and shield
At which the wizard Passions fly,
By which the giant Follies die!

Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen
Arched with the enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, pranked in tissued vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy dressed,

472

Comes like a bride so trim arrayed,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade!

Youth of the quick uncheated sight,
Thy walks, Observance, more invite!
O thou, who lov'st that ampler range,
Where life's wide prospects round thee change,
And with her mingling sons allied,
Throw'st the prattling page aside:
To me in converse sweet impart
To read in man the native heart,
To learn, where science sure is found,
From Nature as she lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the lessons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,

473

Hast blest this social science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the charmful task;
In pageant quaint, in motley mask,
Behold before her musing eyes
The countless Manners round her rise;
While ever varying as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-robed Maids combine,
And those the laughing Satyrs join!
But who is he whom now she views,
In robe of wild contending hues?

474

Thou by the Passions nursed, I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whose name is known
To Britain's favoured isle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crispèd hair

475

Are placed each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loosed attends thy side!

By old Miletus who so long
Has ceased his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In changed Italia's modern shades;
By him, whose Knight's distinguished name
Refined a nation's lust of fame,
Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet,

476

Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;
Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore,
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her sire betrayed:

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

477

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those oft-turned scrolls I leave behind:
The Sports and I this hour agree
To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

18 The Passions.

An Ode for Music

480

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft to hear her shell
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind,
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

481

In lightnings owned his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled,
A solemn, strange and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung—but with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose;

482

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed,
Sad proof of thy distressful state,
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed,
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

483

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired,
And from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But O how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

484

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to faun and dryad known!
The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leapt up and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial,
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed,
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,

485

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why to us denied?
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that god-like age
Fill thy recording Sister's page—
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Even all at once together found,
Caecilia's mingled world of sound—
O bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

486

19 Ode Occasioned by the Death of Mr Thomson

488

TO GEORGE LYTTELTON, Esq; THIS ODE IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR

[_]

The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames near Richmond.

Haec tibi semper erunt, et cum solennia vota
reddemus Nymphis, et cum lustrabimus agros. [OMITTED]
------ Amavit nos quoque Daphnis.
VIRG. Bucol. Eclog. v [74–5, 52]

I

In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave!

489

The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

II

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

III

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

IV

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is dressed,
And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest!

V

And oft as Ease and Health retire

490

To breezy lawn or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And mid the varied landscape weep.

VI

But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Or tears, which Love and Pity shed
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

VII

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year.

VIII

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned Sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

491

IX

And see, the fairy valleys fade,
Dun Night has veiled the solemn view!
—Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

X

The genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom,
Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.

XI

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
‘O! vales and wild woods’, shall he say,
‘In yonder grave your Druid lies!’

492

20 An Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, Considered as the Subject of Poetry

[ODE TO A FRIEND ON HIS RETURN &c.]

501

1

H[ome], thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long
Have seen thee lingering, with a fond delay,
Mid those soft friends whose hearts, some future day,
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth,

502

Whom, long endeared, thou leav'st by Lavant's side;
Together let us wish him lasting truth,
And joy untainted with his destined bride.
Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-lived bliss, forget my social name;
But think far off how, on the southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose every vale
Shall prompt the poet and his song demand:
To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;

503

Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

2

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill,
'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;
Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet
Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill.
There each trim lass that skims the milky store
To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.

504

There every herd, by sad experience, knows
How, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly,
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,
Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie.
Such airy beings awe the untutored swain:
Nor thou, though learned, his homelier thoughts neglect;
Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain:
These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign,
And fill with double force her heart-commanding strain.

3

Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear,
Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,
Taught by the father to his listening son
Strange lays, whose power had charmed a Spenser's ear.
At every pause, before thy mind possessed,
Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around

505

With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest,
Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned:
Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat
The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave,
When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,
And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave;
Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel,
Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms;
When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,
The sturdy clans poured forth their bonny swarms,
And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.

4

'Tis thine to sing how, framing hideous spells,
In Skye's lone isle the gifted wizard seer,

506

Lodged in the wintry cave with
Or in the depth of Uist's dark forests dwells;
How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own visions oft astonished droop,
When o'er the watery strath or quaggy moss
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.

507

Or if in sports, or on the festive green,
Their [OMITTED] glance some fated youth descry,
Who, now perhaps in lusty vigour seen
And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.
For them the viewless forms of air obey,
Their bidding heed and at their beck repair.
They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
And heartless, oft like moody madness stare
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

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What though far off, from some dark dell espied,

508

His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight,
Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,
Nor choose the guidance of that faithless light!
For watchful, lurking mid the unrustling reed,

509

At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,
And listens oft to hear the passing steed,
And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes,
If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

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7

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed!
Whom late bewildered in the dank, dark fen,
Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then!
To that sad spot his [OMITTED]
On him enraged the fiend, in angry mood,
Shall never look with pity's kind concern,
But instant, furious, rouse the whelming flood
O'er its drowned banks, forbidding all return.
Or, if he meditate his wished escape
To some dim hill that seems uprising near,

510

To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape
In all its terrors clad shall wild appear.
Meantime the waterys urge shall round him rise,
Poured sudden forth from every swelling source.
What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs?
His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force,
And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse.

8

For him, in vain, his anxious wife shall wait,
Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him, in vain, at to-fall of the day,
His bairns shall linger at the unclosing gate

511

Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night
Her travelled limbs in broken slumbers steep,
With dropping willows dressed, his mournful sprite
Shall visit sad, perhaps, her silent sleep:
Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,
Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,
And with his blue swoll'n face before her stand,
And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak:
‘Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue
At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;
Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew,
While I lie weltering on the osiered shore,
Drowned by the Kaelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more.’

9

Unbounded is thy range; with varied style
Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring
From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,
To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows:

512

In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found,
Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,
And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground!
Or thither, where beneath the showery west
The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid;
Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest.
No slaves revere them and no wars invade:
Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour,
The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,
And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power
In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold,
And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

513

10

But O, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,
On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,
Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides!
Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace!
Then to my ear transmit some gentle song
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,

514

Their bounded walks the ragged cliffs along,
And all their prospect but the wintry main.
With sparing temperance, at the needful time,
They drain the sainted spring or, hunger-pressed,
Along the Atlantic rock undreading climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest.
Thus blest in primal innocence they live,
Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare
Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.
Hard is their shallow soil, [OMITTED] and bare;
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

515

11

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage
Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed;
For not alone they touch the village breast,
But filled in elder time the historic page.
There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned,
In musing hour his Wayward Sisters found,
And with their terrors dressed the magic scene.
From them he sung, when mid his bold design,
Before the Scot afflicted and aghast,
The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line,
Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed
Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told,
Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;

516

Proceed, in forceful sounds and colours bold
The native legends of thy land rehearse;
To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse.

12

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober Truth, are still to Nature true,
And call forth fresh delights to Fancy's view,
The heroic Muse employed her Tasso's art!
How have I trembled when, at Tancred's stroke,

517

Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured;
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword!
How have I sat, where piped the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung.
Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence at each sound imagination glows;
Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows;

518

Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong and clear,
And fills the impassioned heart and lulls the harmonious ear.

13

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail,
Ye [OMITTED] firths and lakes which, far away,
Are by smooth Annan filled, or pastoral Tay,
Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail!
The time shall come when I perhaps may tread
Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom,
Or o'er your stretching heaths by Fancy led:
Then will I dress once more the faded bower,
Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [OMITTED] shade;
Or crop from Tiviot's dale each

519

And mourn on Yarrow banks
Meantime, ye powers, that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains attend,
Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir,
To him I lose your kind protection lend,
And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend.