By which as Milton lay, his ev'ning ear,
From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew,

65 Nigh sphered in heav'n, its native strains could hear, On which that ancient trump he reached was hung:

Thither oft, his glory greeting,

From Waller's yrtle shades re ting,
With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, 70
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;

In vain-such bliss to one alone
Of all the sons of soul was known,
And Heav'n and Fancy, kindred pow'rs,
Have now o'erturned th' inspiring bow'rs,

75 Or curtained close such scene from ev'ry future view.

1746.

ODE

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746

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 hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

5

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! 1746.

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1746.

ODE TO EVENING
If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs and dying gales,

5

Ιο

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O’erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short, shrill shriek, Aits by on leathern wing;

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,

15

Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark’ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!

20

For when thy folding-star, arising, shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and elves

Who slept in flow'rs the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge 25
And sheds the fresh’ning dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

30

Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile

Or upland fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.

35

But when chill blust'ring winds or driving rain
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut

That from the mountain's side

Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

40

While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve;

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy ling'ring light;.

45

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes ;

50

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipped Health,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav’rite name!

1746.

THE PASSIONS

AN ODE FOR MUSIC

5

When Music, heav'nly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

10

15

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,

Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

20

Next Anger rushed: his eyes, on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

25

With woful measures wan Despair

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air-

'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

30

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delightful measure?

Still it whispered promised 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 called on Echo still, through all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close,
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

35

And longer had she sung—but with a frown
Revenge impatient rose;

40 He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,

And with a with'ring look
The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.

45 And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,

50 Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his

head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed,

Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mixed, 55 And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

60

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired,
And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound:
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

65

70

But O how altered was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder fung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known!
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,

Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

75

80

85

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :

He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
But soon he saw the brisk awak’ning viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,

And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

90