The Works of William Mason :: :: University of Virginia Library

While scattering from her seraph wings
The heav'nly-tinctur'd dew
Whence ev'ry earthly blessing springs,
Fair Hope o'er Albion flew,
She heard from that superb domain,
Where Art has dar'd to fix his reign,
Mid shaggy rocks, and mountains wild,
A female vot'ry breathe her prayer.
She clos'd her plumes, she hush'd the air,
And thus replied in accents mild:

“What tender warblings to my ear,
On zephyrs born, aspire,
To draw me from my sapphire sphere,
Charm'd by her magic lyre?
I come; she wakes the willing strings,
With careless grace her hand she flings
The soft symphonious chords among;
Nor ever on the list'ning plain,
Since the sweet Lesbian tun'd her strain,
Was heard a more melodious song.

“But why to me, fair Syren, wake
The supplicating lay?
Is it in Hope's vain power to make
Thy gaiety more gay?
O rather bid me bear my balm
Some sable captive's woe to calm,
Who bows beneath Oppression's weight;
Or sooth those scorn'd, yet faithful few
(For much they need my lenient dew)
That tremble for Britannia's fate.

“My mirror but reflects the gleam
Of distant happiness;
They scorn to court a flatt'ring dream,
Who present joy possess.
The feather'd sov'reign of the sky,
Who glories with undazzled eye
To meet the sun's meridian rays,
Say, will he quit his radiant height,
When floating in that sea of light,
To flutter in a meteor's blaze?

“Art thou not She whom fav'ring Fate
In all her splendor drest,
To shew in how supreme a state
A mortal might be blest?

Bade beauty, elegance, and health,
Patrician birth, patrician wealth,
Their blessings on her darling shed;
Bade Hymen of that generous race
Who Freedom's fairest annals grace
Give to thy love th' illustrious head.

“Is there a boon to mortals dear
Her fondness has not lent,
Ere I could whisper in thy ear
‘The blessing will be sent?’
Obsequious have I e'er denied
To wait attendant at thy side,
Prepar'd each shade of fear to chace.
To antedate each coming joy,
And ere the transient bliss could cloy,
To bid a livelier take its place.

“Nay (blushing I confess the truth)
I've hover'd o'er thy head
Ev'n when thy too compliant youth,
By wayward fashion led,
Has left the Muses and thy lyre,
To mix in that tumultuous choir,
Of purblind Chance the vot'rys pale,
Who round his midnight altars stand,
And, as the glittering heaps expand,
His power with unblest orgies hail.

“There Cunning lours, there Envy pines,
There Avarice veils his face,
Ev'n Beauty's eager eye resigns
Its mildly-melting grace;
There, as his lots the dæmon throws,
Each breast with expectation glows,
While heedless Thou of loss or gain,
Seest from thy hand that treasure flown
That might have hush'd an orphan's moan,
Or smooth'd the rugged bed of pain.

“O then I spread my wings to fly
Back to my sapphire sphere,
Resolv'd to leave no ray to dry
Thy morn's repentant tear;
But when that bright atonement falls,
The sight my resolution palls,
I haste the liquid gem to save.
So still, fair Syren, shall my power
Console thee through life's varying hour,
Nor will I quit thee at the grave.

“O then may white-rob'd Faith appear,
With glowing Charity,
To spread with mine their wings, and bear
Their vot'ry to the sky.
Then mingling with our Seraph train,
Thy lyre may wake a loftier strain,

Where Rapture hymns th' eternal throne;
Where to desire is to possess,
No wish for more, no fear for less,
Where Certainty and I are one.”

Printed 1797, from an enlarged and corrected copy.

This marks the time when this Ode was written, viz. towards the conclusion of the American War.