Изображения страниц
[blocks in formation]

The band, as fairy legends say, Was wove on that creating day When he, who call'd with thought to birth Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, And dress'd with springs, and forests tall, And pour'd the main engirting all, Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd, Himself in some diviner mood, Retiring, sate with her alone, And plac'd her on his sapphire throne, 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 Breath'd her magic notes aloud: And thou, thou rich-hair'd 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, Listening the deep applauding thunder: And Truth, in sunny vest array'd, By whose the Tarsol's eyes were made; All the shadowy tribes of mind, In braided dance their murmurs join'd, And all the bright uncounted pow'rs, Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flow'rs. Where is the Bard whose soul can now Its high presuming hopes avow? Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, This hallow'd work for him design'd? High on some cliff to heaven up-pil'd, Of rude access, of prospect wild, Where tangled round the jealous deep, Strange shades o'erbrow the vallies 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


I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which a Milton lay; his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,
Nigh spher'd in heaven its native strains could
On which that ancient trump he reach'd was
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 pow'rs, Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bow'rs, Or curtain'd close such scene from every fature view.

§151. Ode. Written in the Year 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
By all their country's wishes blest!

Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By Fairy hands their knell is wrung,
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!

§ 152. Ode to Mercy. COLLINS.


THOU, who sitt'st a smiling bride

By Valour's arm'd and awful side, Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

Winn'st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his blood 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 ground:

See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded her Before thy shrine my country's genins st And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with a wound!


When he whom ev'n our joys provoke, The fiend of Nature, join'd his yoke, And rush'd in wrath to make ourišle his?” Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his I see recoil'd his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds; Thy tender melting eyes they own, O Maid, for all thy love to Britain shewn, Where Justice bars her iron tow'r, To thee we build a roseate bow'r, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and

our monarch's throne.

§153. Ode to Liberty. COLLINS,


WHO shall awake the Spartan fife,

And call in solemn sounds to life

e youths whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view!
hat new Alceus, fancy-blest,

Nor e'er her former pride relate
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak,
(Where when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer, heard thy voice;

ap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted
O Goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,
Let not my shell's misguided pow'r
er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
Freedom, no, I will not tell,
Rome, before thy face,

all sing the sword in myrtles drest, [cealing,
it Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame con- Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
hat place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?) The ravening eagle northward fled :)
ill she her brightest lightnings round re-Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
[wound! With those to whom thy stork is dear;
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd;
Whose crown a British queen refus'd!
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holier name alone remains :
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, Nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

h heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,
i'd by a wild and ariless race,

n off its wide ambitious base,

en Time his northern sons of spoil awoke,
nd all the blended work of strength and
h many a rude repeated stroke, [grace,
many a barbarous yell, to thousand frag-He

ments broke.

[blocks in formation]

mall Marino joins the theme, gh least, not last in thy esteem. e, louder strike, th' ennobling strings hose whose merchant sons, were kings; im who, deck'd with pearly pride, dria weds his green-hair'd bride: → port of glory, wealth, and pleasure, r let me change this Lydian measure;


Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works the wizard Time has wrought,
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand†,
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
pass'd with unwet feet through all our


To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains


Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild storm ev'n Nature's self confound-
[couth surprise,
Withering her giant sons with strange un-
This pillar'd earth, so firm and wide,

By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was push'd aside,

And down the shouldering billows borne.
And see like gems her laughing train,
The little isles on every side-
Mona, once hid from those who search'd the
Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
And Wight, who checks the western tide-
For thee consenting heaven has each be-

A fair attendant on her sovereign pride;
To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,
For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last


The Dutch: among whom there are very severe penalties for those who are convicted of killing ird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a supersti sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their ies.

This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists too have endeaed to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposiof the two opposite coasts. I do not remeniber that any poetical use has been hitherto made

There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a Mermaid becoming enamoured of a young man traordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and ise at her appearance. This, however, was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that, in revenge s treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who pted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down ea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.

3 B s



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 natives 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-tressy Dane,

Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
"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 cloud that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drést,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn, delighted and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found-gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer inould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins ;
There on the wall the Patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And grav'd 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 myrile wand can steep
Ev'n 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 matrous hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore:
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair;
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around-
Q how supremely art thou blest!
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west.

$154. Ode to a Lady on the Death of Colonel Charles Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written in May, 1745. COLLINS. WHILE lost to all his former mirth, Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day;
While stain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair

The wreaths of cheerful May;

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 soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld'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.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave the sainted rest;
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wond'ring chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,

And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And with the avenging fight.

But, lo where sunk, in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,

Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sad which wraps the dead
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round

Proclaim her reign restor'd:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And bleeding at her sacred feet
Present the sated sword.

If, weak to sooth so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart
To dry thy constant tear;
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thon sec'st him lie,
Wild war insulting near:

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep:
Ev'n humble Harting's cottage vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.



156. Ode to Peace.
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!

§ 155. Ode to Evening.


aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales;


nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd

[blocks in formation]

oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
inst the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
ow teach me, maid compos'd,
o breathe some soften'd strain,

ose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening

7 not unseemly with its stillness suit, 3, musing slow, I hail

hy genial lov'd return!

when thy folding-star arising shows
pily circlet, at his warning lamp,
he fragrant hours, and elves
Tho slept in buds the day,

Tir'd 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!
Peace, thy injur'd robes upbind 1
O rise, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train:
The British lion, Goddess sweet,
Lies stretch'd on carth to kiss thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.

many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,


sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier ne pensive pleasures sweet, epare thy shadowy car.

n let me rove some wild and healthy scene,
ind some ruin midst its dreary dells,
'hose walls more awful nod
7thy religious gleans.

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!


$157. The Manners. An Ode. COLLINS,
AREWEL, for clearer ken design'd,
The dim-discover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My silent search in vain requir'd!
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 pow'r impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizard passions fly,
By which the giant follies die!

Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green,
Where Science, prank'd in tissued vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,
Comes like a bride, so trim array'd,
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 mingled 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 suré 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, MD -
Alluring from a safer rule,

ong, regardful of thy quiet rule,


Fancy, Friendship,Science, smiling Peace, To dream in her enchanted school;
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!

Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Had bless'd this social science most.
9. B 4


'chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
ent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
at from the mountain's side
iews wilds and swelling floods,
hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
I hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
dewy fingers draw
he gradual dusky veil.

ile Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he


bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport eneath thy lingering light;

ile sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
ffrights thy shrinking train,
nd rudely rends thy robes;

Retiring hence to thoughtless cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell, Not vain she finds the cheerful 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-rob'd maids combine, And those the laughing satyrs join! But who is he whom now she views, In robe of wild contending hues ? Thou by the passions nurs'd, 1 greet The comic sock that binds thy feet! O Humour, thou whose name is known To Britain's favour'd isle alone, Me too amidst thy band admit, There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit, (Whose jewels in his crisped hair Are plac'd each other's beams to share, Whom no delights from thee divide) In laughter loos'd attends thy side. By old Miletus, who so long Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song; By all you taught the Tuscan maids, In chang'd Italia's modern shades;

By him whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him 1, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore.
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid

By virtues in her sire betray'd:

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each proinpted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those off-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree
To rove thy sceneful world with thee!

$158. The Passions. An Ode for Music.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each, for Madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret strings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hands the strings,
With woeful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds, his grief beguil'd;
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 delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd 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 call'd on Echo still through all the song, And where her sweetest theme she chos, A soft responsive voice was heard at eve close, [den h And Hope enchanted smil'd, and way'd her gor And longer had she sung-but with a frown. Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thun 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 w
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heatAnd though sometimes, each dreary p between,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien: While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd b ing from his head.

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

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,


And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pers
And dashing soft from rocks around, [sou
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond de
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

Alluding to the Milesian Tales, some of the earliest romances.

+ Cervantes.

Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in

Paris in the year 1746.


« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »