 | Ode to Mrs. Macaulay, on her birth-day, April the Second |  |
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ODE TO Mrs. MACAULAY, On her BIRTH-DAY, April the Second.
By a Youth of seventeen Years of Age.
O thou, t'instruct the human mind,
By all the bounteous Gods design'd,
In Hist'ry's learned lore!
O Thou, whom raptur'd Truth inspires!
Thou, whom th'applausive world admires,
And Wisdom's sons adore!
By all the bounteous Gods design'd,
In Hist'ry's learned lore!
O Thou, whom raptur'd Truth inspires!
Thou, whom th'applausive world admires,
And Wisdom's sons adore!
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By glorious Sparta's magic strain,
Which made wild tyrants frown in vain,
And all their rage disarm'd:
By all those Druid Harps of old,
Whose notes (as ancient tales unfold)
The storms of madness charm'd!
Which made wild tyrants frown in vain,
And all their rage disarm'd:
By all those Druid Harps of old,
Whose notes (as ancient tales unfold)
The storms of madness charm'd!
By that deep visionary Wood,
Where Freedom's hallow'd altar stood,—
The work of hands divine!
By all that laureate Band, which pray'd
In transport to the smiling Maid,
Around the gifted shrine!
Where Freedom's hallow'd altar stood,—
The work of hands divine!
By all that laureate Band, which pray'd
In transport to the smiling Maid,
Around the gifted shrine!
By all the Heroes of the Dead!
By all those Chiefs, who nobly bled
For Britain's dying laws!
By all those Patriots, mark'd by Fame,
Who 'midst the shades repeat the name
Of Cath'rine with applause!—
By all those Chiefs, who nobly bled
For Britain's dying laws!
By all those Patriots, mark'd by Fame,
Who 'midst the shades repeat the name
Of Cath'rine with applause!—
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Accept,—(nor Hist'ry's Self shall blame)
Accept, amidst the loud acclaim,
The tribute of the Nine!
O hear the soft mellifluous lay,
That in low murmurs dies away,—
A favouring ear incline!
Accept, amidst the loud acclaim,
The tribute of the Nine!
O hear the soft mellifluous lay,
That in low murmurs dies away,—
A favouring ear incline!
The still small note the Muses love,
As Pity loves the plaintive dove,
Or woodland pilgrim's tale!
Macaulay's name—the Muse shall sing—
Still shall she sweep the trembling string,
When shouts of rapture fail!
As Pity loves the plaintive dove,
Or woodland pilgrim's tale!
Macaulay's name—the Muse shall sing—
Still shall she sweep the trembling string,
When shouts of rapture fail!
The beauties of her polish'd line,
Where ease and elegance combine,
The Muse shall calmly tell
To dryads and to sylvan fawns,
To all the nymphs of groves and lawns,
And tenants of the cell!
Where ease and elegance combine,
The Muse shall calmly tell
To dryads and to sylvan fawns,
To all the nymphs of groves and lawns,
And tenants of the cell!
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With joy shall all the watery Gods,
And pow'rs that hold the green abodes,
Great Hist'ry's Genius, hail!
“High Hoel's harp” shall wake again!
Again shall “soft Lewellyn's strain”
Swell sweetly down the vale!
And pow'rs that hold the green abodes,
Great Hist'ry's Genius, hail!
“High Hoel's harp” shall wake again!
Again shall “soft Lewellyn's strain”
Swell sweetly down the vale!
| Ode to Mrs. Macaulay, on her birth-day, April the Second | |