SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis faid, an hoary pile,
'Midft the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-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 felf o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'T were hard for modern song to tell.
Yet ftill, if truth those beams infufe,
Which guide at once, and charm the Mufe,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model ftill remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their conforted Druids fing
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

Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rife!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majeftic, through the mix'd defign;
The fecret builder knew to chufe,
Each sphere found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains,
When nearer funs emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the Patriot's fight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with fome prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.

Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmoft altar ftand!
Now foothe her, to her blifsful train
Blithe Concord's focial form to gain :
Concord, whofe myrtle wand can steep
Ev'n Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep :
Before whofe breathing bofom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our fires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd fhore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding found,
The nations fhout to her around,
O, how fupremely art thou bleft,
Thou, Lady, thou fhalt rule the weft!

To a Lady, on the Death of Colonel Charles Rofs, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written May, 1745.

WHILE, loft to all his former mirth,

Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While ftain'd with blood he ftrives to tear

Unfeemly from his fea-green hair

The wreaths of chearful May:

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:

Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows fhall bless the grave,
Wheree'er the youth is laid:

That facred fpot the village hind

With every sweetest turf shall bind,

And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms fhall fit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;

And,

And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's aweful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

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

Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Creffy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted treffes madly spread,
Το every fod which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er fhall fhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor❜d:

Till William feek the fad retreat,
And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated fword.

If, weak to foothe so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy conftant tear :

If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou fee'ft him lie,
Wild war infulting near:

Wheree'er from time thou court'ft relief,
The Mufe fhall ftill, with focial grief,
Her gentlest promise keep :
Ev'n humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the fad repeated tale,
And bid her fhepherds weep.

ODE то

EVENING.

Faught of oaten ftop, or paftoral song,

IF

May hope, chafte Eve, to foothe thy modeft ear, Like thy own folemn fprings,

Thy fprings, and dying gales;

O nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,'

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat,
With fhort fhrill fhriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As