O THOU! Who sitt'st a smiling bride Winn'st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless 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 to ground: See, Mercy, see! with pure and loaded hands, Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands, And decks thy altar still, though pierc'd with many a wound! ANTISTROPHE. When he whom e'en our joys provoke, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey: O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. I see recoil 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, To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne! ODE TO EVENING. Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales; O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail For when thy folding-star arising shows Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, And rudely rends thy robes: So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy favourite name! DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring And melting virgins own their love. TO SIMPLICITY. O THOU, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought, In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong: Who first on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, and Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who with hermit heart Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall: But com'st a decent maid, In Attic robe array'd, O chaste, unboastful nymph! to thee I call! By all the honey'd store On Hybla's thymy shore, By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear, By her whose love-lorn woe, In evening musings slow, Soothed, sweetly sad, Electra's poet's ear: By old Cephisus' deep, Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat, On whose enamell'd side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet. O sister meek of Truth, To my admiring youth Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. While Rome could none esteem But virtue's patriot theme, You loved her hills, and led her laureate band; But staid to sing alone To one distinguish'd throne, And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in hall or bower, The passions own thy power, Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean; For thou hast left her shrine, Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. To some divine excess, Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole What each, what all supply, May court, may charm our eye, Thou only thou canst raise the meeting soul! Of these let others ask, To aid some mighty task, I only seek to find thy temperate vale: To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale. |