Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid, Thy temple's pride design ; In all who view the shrine. But who is he, whom later garlands grace, Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove ! There Picture's toil shall well relate, O'er mortal bliss prevail : With each disastrous tale. Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous queen,t Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene, And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd O Fear! I know thee by my throbbing heart, Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line, Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine. ANTISTROPHE. There let me oft, retir'd by day, Allow'd with thee to dwell : To hear a British shell ! ODE TO FEAR. Thou, to whom the world unknown 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 disorder'd Ay. For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear' Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fixt behold ? Who stalks his round, a 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 join'd, Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind : And those, the fiends, who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds and wrecks preside; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lists her red arm, expos’d and bare ; 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? Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last ? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ? Or in some hollow'd seat, 'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought: Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought, And, lest thou meet my blasted view, When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe, O thou, whose spirit most possest ODE. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746. EPODE 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 hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod, Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice The grief-full Muse address'd her infant tongue; 'The maids and matrons, on her awful voice, Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung: Yet he, the bard * who first invok'd thy name, Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. By Fairy hands their knell is rung, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Thy gentlest influence own, Or dwell in willow'd meads 'more near, ODE TO LIBEPTY. STROPHY ANTISTROPHE. Beyond the measure vast of thought, The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story, Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand,+ Applauding F endom lov'd of old to view ? No sea between, nor cliff sublime and huary What new Al-ens, fancy-blest, He pass'd with unwet feet through all our land Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest, To the blown Baltic then, they say, At Wisden's shrine awhile its flame concealing, The wild waves found another way, (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd ?) Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, It 'eap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted A wide wild storm e'en Nature's self confounding, wound! Withering her giant sons with strange uncouil O goddess, in that feeling hour, surprise. Vhen most its sounds would court thy ears, This pillar'd earth so firm and wide, Let not my shell's misguided power By winds and inward labors torn, E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. In thunders dread was push'd aside, No, Freedom, no, I will not tell, And down the shouldering billows borne How Rome, before thy face, And søe, like gems, her laughing train, With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell, The little isles on every side, Push'd by a wild and artless race, Monat once hid from those who search the main, From off its wide ambitious base, Where thousand elfin shapes abide, And all the blended work of strength and grace For thee consenting Heaven has each bestow'd, A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments To thee this blest divorce she ow'd, broke. For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last a bode! EPODE. SECOND EPODE. Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, Yet, e'en where'er the least appear'd, * The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe pen. alties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and par. ticularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to en. tertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their liberties. † This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists, too, have endeavored to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I do not remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it. 1 There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mer. maid, becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordi. nary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprise at her appearance. This, how. ever, was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who at. tempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs. From the supporting myrtles round Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings With woful measures wan Despair Low. sullen sounds his grief beguilid, A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fils, by starts 'twas wild. Thy shrine in some religious wood, How may the poet now unfold, Ye forms divine, ye laureate band, 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 callid 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 sinil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung—but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose, And, with a withering look, And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; 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 bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state, Hate. And from her wild sequester'd seat, And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measurestole Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, The red-breast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his liule aid, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In lempests shake thy sylvan cell; The tender thought on thee shall dwell. The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; queen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, They would have thought, who heard the strain, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, And he, amidst his frolic play, Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead. AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND; CONSIDERED AS INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME. O Music, sphere-descended maid, THE SUBJECT OF POETRY. HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads As in that lov'd Athenian bower, long You learn'd an all-commanding power, Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd, Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future day Can well recall what then it heard. Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.* Where is thy native simple heart, Go, not unmindful of that cordial youtht Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Arise, as in that elder time, Together let us wish him lasting truth Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Thy wonders, in that godlike age, Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast Fill thy recording sister's page My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; "Tis said, and I believe the tale, But think, far off, how, on the Southern coast, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Had more of strength, diviner rage, Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale Than all which charms this laggard age, Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand : E'en all at once together found To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail ; Cæcilia's mingled world of sound Thou need'st but take 'thy pencil to thy hand, O, bid our vain endeavors cease, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land. Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state ! There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; Confirm the tales her sons relate! "Tis Fancy's land to which thou seli'si thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meel, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There each trim lass, that skims the milky store To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls allots ; DIRGE IN CYMBELINE, By night they sip it round the cottage-door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, There, every herd, by sad experience, knows How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Such airy beings awe th' untulor'd swain: Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts And rifle all the breathing Spring. 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, But shepherd lads assemble here, And fill with double force her heart-commanding And melting virgins own their love. strain. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; And dress thy grave with pearly dew. * How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers! † A gentleman of the name of Rarrow, whe introduced Home to Colljus. |
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