ODE to PITY.
O THOU, the Friend of Man aſſign'd,
With balmy Hands his Wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic Woe:
When firſt Diſtreſs with Dagger keen
Broke forth to waſte his deſtin'd Scene,
His wild unſated Foe!
[2]2.
By
Pella's
* Bard, a magic Name,
By all the Griefs his Thought could frame,
Receive my humble Rite:
Long, Pity, let the Nations view
Thy ſky-worn Robes of tend'reſt Blue,
And Eyes of dewy Light!
3.
But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Iliſſus' diſtant Side,
Deſerted Stream, and mute?
Wild
Arun † too has heard thy Strains,
And Echo, 'midſt my native Plains,
Been ſooth'd by Pity's Lute.
[3]4.
There firſt the Wren thy Myrtles ſhed
On gentleſt Otway's infant Head,
To Him thy Cell was ſhown;
And while He ſung the Female Heart,
With Youth's ſoft Notes unſpoil'd by Art,
Thy Turtles mix'd their own.
5.
Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's Aid,
Ev'n now my Thoughts, relenting Maid,
Thy Temple's Pride deſign:
Its Southern Site, its Truth compleat
Shall raiſe a wild Enthuſiaſt Heat,
In all who view the Shrine.
6.
There Picture's Toils ſhall well relate,
How Chance, or hard involving Fate,
O'er mortal Bliſs prevail:
[4] The Buſkin'd Muſe ſhall near her ſtand,
And ſighing prompt her tender Hand,
With each diſaſtrous Tale.
7.
There let me oft, retir'd by Day,
In Dreams of Paſſion melt away,
Allow'd with Thee to dwell:
There waſte the mournful Lamp of Night,
Till, Virgin, Thou again delight
To hear a Britiſh Shell!
ODE to FEAR.
[5]THOU, to whom the World unknown
With all its ſhadowy Shapes is ſhown;
Who ſee'ſt appall'd th' unreal Scene,
While Fancy lifts the Veil between:
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 fly,
For lo what Monſters in thy Train appear!
Danger, whoſe Limbs of Giant Mold
What mortal Eye can fix'd behold?
Who ſtalks his Round, an hideous Form,
Howling amidſt the Midnight Storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy Steep
Of ſome looſe hanging Rock to ſleep:
[6] 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;
Whilſt Vengeance, in the lurid Air,
Lifts her red Arm, expos'd and bare:
On whom that rav'ning
* Brood of Fate,
Who lap the Blood of Sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghaſtly Train can ſee,
And look not madly wild, like Thee?
EPODE.
In earlieſt Grece to Thee with partial Choice,
The Grief-full Muſe addreſt her infant Tongue;
The Maids and Matrons, on her awful Voice,
Silent and pale in wild Amazement hung.
[7]Yet He the Bard
* who firſt invok'd thy Name,
Diſdain'd in Marathon its Pow'r to feel:
For not alone he nurs'd the Poet's flame,
But reach'd from Virtue's Hand the Patriot's Steel.
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?
Wrapt in thy cloudy Veil th'
Inceſtuous Queen †Sigh'd the ſad Call
‖ her Son and Huſband hear'd,
When once alone it broke the ſilent Scene,
And He the Wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.
[8]O Fear, I know Thee by my throbbing Heart,
Thy with'ring Pow'r inſpir'd each mournful Line,
Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled Part,
Yet all the Thunders of the Scene are thine!
ANTISTROPHE.
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 Sea-men's Cries inTempeſts brought!
Dark Pow'r, with ſhudd'ring meek ſubmitted Thought
Be mine, to read the Viſions old,
Which thy awak'ning Bards have told:
And leſt thou meet my blaſted View,
Hold each ſtrange Tale devoutly true;
[9] Ne'er be I found, by Thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd Eve abroad.
When Ghoſts, as Cottage-Maids believe,
Their pebbled Beds permitted leave,
And Gobblins haunt from Fire, or Fen,
Or Mine; or Flood, the Walks of Men!
O Thou whoſe Spirit moſt poſſeſt
The ſacred Seat of Shakeſpear's Breaſt!
By all that from thy Prophet broke,
In thy Divine Emotions ſpoke:
Hither again thy Fury deal.
Teach me but once like Him to feel:
His Cypreſs Wreath my Meed decree;
And I, O Fear, will dwell with Thee!
ODE to SIMPLICITY.
[10]1.
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, or Pleaſure's, nurs'd the Pow'rs of Song!
2.
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!
[11]3.
By all the honey'd Store
On Hybla's Thymy Shore,
By all her Blooms, and mingled Murmurs dear,
By Her
*, whoſe Love-born Woe
In Ev'ning Muſings ſlow
Sooth'd ſweetly ſad Electra's Poet's Ear:
4.
By old Cephiſus deep,
Who ſpread his wavy Sweep
In warbled Wand'rings round thy green Retreat,
On whoſe enamel'd Side
When holy Freedom died
No equal Haunt allur'd thy future Feet.
[12]5.
O Siſter meek of Truth,
To my admiring Youth,
Thy ſober Aid and native Charms infuſe!
The Flow'rs that ſweeteſt breathe,
Tho' Beauty cull'd the Wreath,
Still aſk thy Hand to range their order'd Hues.
6.
While Rome could none eſteem
But Virtue's Patriot Theme,
You lov'd 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.
7.
No more, in Hall or Bow'r,
The Paſſions own thy Pow'r,
Love, only Love her forceleſs Numbers mean:
[13] For Thou haſt left her Shrine,
Nor Olive more, nor Vine,
ſhall gain thy Feet to bleſs the ſervile Scene.
8.
Tho' Taſte, tho' Genius bleſs,
To ſome divine Exceſs,
Faints the cold Work till Thou inſpire the whole;
What each, what all ſupply,
May court, may charm our Eye,
Thou, only Thou can'ſt raiſe the meeting Soul!
9.
Of Theſe let others aſk,
To aid ſome mighty Talk,
I only ſeek to find thy temp'rate Vale:
Where oft my Reed might ſound
To Maids and Shepherds round,
And all thy Sons, O Nature, learn my Tale.
ODE on the POETICAL CHARACTER.
[14]AS once, if not with light Regard,
I read aright that gifted Bard,
(Him whoſe School above the reſt
His Lovelieſt Elfin Queen has bleſt.)
One, only One, unrival'd Fair
*,
Might hope the magic Girdle wear,
At ſolemn Turney hung on high,
The Wiſh of each love-darting Eye;
Lo! to each other Nymph in turn applied,
As if, in Air unſeen, ſome hov'ring Hand,
Some chaſte and Angel-Friend to Virgin-Fame,
With whiſper'd Spell had burſt the ſtarting Band,
[15] It left unbleſt her loath'd diſhonour'd Side;
Happier hopeleſs Fair, if never
Her baffled Hand with vain Endeavour
Had touch'd that fatal Zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me Divineſt Name,
To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in Heav'n,
The Ceſt of ampleſt Pow'r is giv'n:
To few the God-like Gift aſſigns,
To gird their bleſt prophetic Loins,
And gaze her Viſions wild, and feel unmix'd her Flame!
2.
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 dreſt with Springs, and Foreſts tall,
And pour'd the Main engirting all,
[16] Long by the lov'd Enthuſiaſt woo'd,
Himſelf in ſome Diviner Mood,
Retiring, ſate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his Saphire 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 dang'rous Paſſions kept aloof,
Far from the ſainted growing Woof:
But near it ſate Ecſtatic Wonder,
Liſt'ning the deep applauding Thunder:
And Truth, in ſunny Veſt array'd,
By whoſe the Tarſel's Eyes were made;
[17] All the ſhad'wy Tribes of Mind,
In braided Dance their Murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted Pow'rs,
Who feed on Heav'n'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?
3.
High on ſome Cliff, to Heav'n up-pil'd,
Of rude Acceſs, of Proſpect wild.
Where, tangled round the jealous Steep,
Strange Shades o'erbrow the Valleys deep;
And holy Genii guard the Rock,
Its Gloomes embrown, its Springs unlock;
While on its rich ambitious Head,
An Eden, like his own, lies ſpread.
[18] I view that Oak, the fancied Glades among,
By which as Milton lay, His Ev'ning Ear,
From many a Cloud that drop'd Ethereal Dew,
Nigh ſpher'd in Heav'n its native Strains could hear:
On which that ancicnt Trump he reach'd was hung;
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 Heav'n, and Fancy, kindred Pow'rs,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inſpiring Bow'rs,
Or curtain'd cloſe ſuch Scene from ev'ry future View.
ODE, Written in the beginning of the Year 1746.
[19]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 Mold,
She there ſhall dreſs a ſweeter Sod,
Than Fancy's Feet have ever trod.
2.
By Fairy Hands their Knell is rung,
By Forms unſeen their Dirge is ſung;
There Honour comes, a Pilgrim grey,
To bleſs the Turf that wraps their Clay,
And Freedom ſhall a-while repair,
To dwell a weeping Hermit there!
ODE to MERCY.
[20]STROPHE.
O Thou, who ſit'ſt a ſmiling Bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful Side,
Gentleſt of Sky-born Forms, and beſt ador'd:
Who oft with Songs, divine to hear,
Win'ſt from his fatal Graſp the Spear,
And hid'ſt in Wreaths of Flow'rs 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, tho' pierc'd with many a Wound!
[21]ANTISTROPHE.
When he whom ev'n our Joys provoke,
The Fiend of Nature join'd his Yoke,
And ruſh'd in Wrath to make our Iſle his Prey;
Thy Form, from out thy ſweet Abode,
O'ertook Him on his blaſted Road,
And ſtop'd his Wheels, and look'd his Rage away.
I ſee recoil his ſable Steeds,
That bore Him ſwift to Salvage Deeds,
Thy tender melting Eyes they own;
O Maid, for all thy Love to Britain ſhown,
Where Juſtice bars her Iron Tow'r,
To Thee we build a roſeate Bow'r,
Thou, Thou ſhalt rule our Queen, and ſhare our Monarch's Throne!
ODE to LIBERTY.
[22]STROPHE.
WHO ſhall awake the Spartan Fife,
And call in ſolemn Sounds to Life,
The Youths, whoſe Locks divinely ſpreading,
Like vernal Hyacinths in ſullen Hue,
At once the Breath of Fear and Virtue ſhedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What New
AIcaeus *, Fancy-bleſt,
Shall ſing the Sword, in Myrtles dreſt,
[23] At Wiſdom's Shrine a-while its Flame concealing,
(What Place ſo fit to ſeal a Deed renown'd?)
Till ſhe her brighteſt Lightnings round revealing,
It leap'd in Glory forth, and dealt her prompted Wound!
O Goddeſs, in that feeling Hour,
When moſt its Sounds would court thy Ears,
Let not my Shell's miſguided Pow'r
*,
E'er draw thy ſad, thy mindful Tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy weeping Face,
With heavieſt Sound, a Giant-ſtatue, fell,
Puſh'd by a wild and artleſs Race,
From off its wide ambitious Baſe,
When Time his Northern Sons of Spoil awoke,
And all the blended Work of Strength and Grace,
With many a rude repeated Stroke,
And many a barb'rous Yell, to thouſand Fragments broke.
[24]EPODE.2.
Yet ev'n, where'er the leaſt appear'd,
Th' admiring World thy Hand rever'd,
Still 'midſt the ſcatter'd States around,
Some Remnants of Her Strength were found;
They ſaw by what eſcap'd the Storm,
How wond'rous roſe her perfect Form;
How in the great the labour'd Whole,
Each mighty Maſter pour'd his Soul!
For ſunny Florence, Seat of Art,
Beneath her Vines preſerv'd a part,
Till They
*, whom Science lov'd to name,
(O who could fear it?) quench'd her Flame.
And lo, an humbler Relick laid
In jealous Piſa's Olive Shade!
See ſmall
Marino † joins the Theme,
Tho' leaſt, not laſt in thy Eſteem:
[25] Strike, louder ſtrike th' ennobling Strings
To thoſe
*, whoſe Merchant Sons were Kings;
To Him
†, who deck'd with pearly Pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd Bride;
Hail Port of Glory, Wealth, and Pleaſure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian Meaſure;
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 favor'd of thy Choice,
The daring Archer heard thy Voice;
Forth from his Eyrie rous'd in Dread,
The rav'ning Eagle northward fled.)
Or dwell in willow'd Meads more near,
With Thoſe
†† to whom thy Stork is dear:
[26] 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!
ANTISTROPHE.
Beyond the Meaſure vaſt of Thought,
The Works, the Wizzard 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,
He paſs'd with unwet Feet thro' all our Land.
[27] To the blown Baltic then, they ſay,
The wild Waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfiſh Mountains rounding▪
Till all the banded Weſt at once 'gan riſe,
A wide wild Storm ev'n Nature's ſelf confounding,
With'ring her Giant Sons with ſtrange uncouth Surpriſe.
This pillar'd Earth ſo firm and wide,
By Winds and inward Labors torn,
In Thunders dread was puſh'd aſide,
And down the ſhould'ring Billows born,
And ſee, like Gems, her laughing Train,
The little Iſles on ev'ry ſide,
Mona *, once hid from thoſe who ſearch the Main'
Where thouſand Elfin Shapes abide,
[28] And Wight who checks the weſt'ring Tide,
For Thee conſenting Heav'n has each beſtow'd,
A fair Attendant on her ſov'reign Pride:
To Thee this bleſt Divorce ſhe ow'd,
For thou haſt made her Vales thy lov'd, thy laſt Abode!
SECOND EPODE.
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 Native's Feet,
Were wont thy Form celeſtial meet:
[29] Tho' now with hopeleſs Toil we trace
Time's backward Rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treſſed Dane,
Or Roman's ſelf o'erturn'd the Fane,
Or in what Heav'n-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 Clouds 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 Bow'rs by Spring or Hebe dreſt,
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.
[30]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 favor'd Eyes,
In Gothic Pride it ſeems to riſe!
Yet Graecia's graceful Orders join,
Majeſtic thro' the mix'd Deſign;
The ſecret Builder knew to chuſe,
Each ſphere-found Gem of richeſt Hues:
Whate'er Heav'n's purer Mold contains,
When nearer Suns emblaze its Veins;
There on the Walls the Patriot's Sight,
May ever hang with freſh Delight,
And, grav'd with ſome Prophetic Rage,
Read Albion's Fame thro' ev'ry Age.
Ye Forms Divine, ye Laureate Band,
That near her inmoſt Altar ſtand!
[31] Now ſooth Her, to her bliſuful Train
Blithe Concord's ſocial Form to gain:
Concord, whoſe Myrtle 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 Matrons 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,
O how ſupremely art thou bleſt,
Thou, Lady, Thou ſhalt rule the Weſt!
ODE, to a Lady on the Death of Colonel ROSS in the Action of Fon⯑tenoy.
[32]1.
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 chearful May:
2.
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.
[33]3.
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 ev'ry ſweeteſt Turf ſhall bind,
And Peace protect the Shade.
4.
Bleſt Youth, regardful of thy Doom,
Aërial Hands ſhall build thy Tomb,
With ſhadowy Trophies crown'd:
Whilſt Honor bath'd in Tears ſhall rove
To ſigh thy Name thro' ev'ry Grove,
And call his Heros round.
5.
The warlike Dead of ev'ry Age,
Who fill the fair recording Page,
Shall leave their ſainted Reſt:
And, half-reclining on his Spear,
Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming Gueſt.
[34]6.
Old Edward's Sons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Creſſy's laurell'd Field,
And gaze with fix'd Delight:
Again for Britain's Wrongs they feel,
Again they ſnatch the gleamy Steel,
And wiſh th' avenging Fight.
7.
But lo where, ſunk in deep Deſpair,
Her Garments torn, her Boſom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted Treſſes madly ſpread,
To ev'ry Sod, which wraps the Dead,
She turns her joyleſs Eyes.
8.
Ne'er ſhall ſhe leave that lowly Ground,
Till Notes of Triumph burſting round
Proclaim her Reign reſtor'd:
[35] Till William ſeek the ſad Retreat,
And bleeding at her ſacred Feet,
Preſent the ſated Sword.
9.
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 thou ſee'ſt him lie,
Wild War infulting near:
10.
Where'er from Time Thou court'ſt Relief,
The Muſe ſhall ſtill, with ſocial Grief,
Her gentleſt Promiſe keep:
Ev'n humble Harting's cottag'd Vale
Shall learn the ſad repeated Tale,
And bid her Shepherds weep.
ODE to EVENING.
[36]IF ought of Oaten Stop, or Paſtoral Song,
May hope, O penſive Eve, to ſooth thine Ear,
Like thy own brawling Springs,
Thy Springs, and dying Gales,
O Nymph reſerv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun
Sits in yon weſtern Tent, whoſe cloudy Skirts,
With Brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy Bed:
Now Air is huſh'd, ſave where the weak-ey'd Bat,
With ſhort ſhrill Shriek flits 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 born in heedleſs Hum:
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breathe ſome ſoften'd Strain,
[37] Whoſe Numbers ſtealing thro' thy darkning Vale,
May not unſeemly with its Stillneſs ſuit,
As muſing ſlow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd Return!
For when thy folding Star ariſing ſhews
His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who ſlept in Buds the Day,
And many a Nymph who wreaths her Brows with Sedge,
And ſheds the freſh'ning Dew, and lovelier ſtill,
The Penſive Pleaſures ſweet
Prepare thy ſhadowy Car.
Then let me rove ſome wild and heathy Scene,
Or find ſome Ruin 'midſt its dreary Dells,
Whoſe Walls more awful nod
By thy religious Gleams.
Or if chill bluſtring Winds, or driving Rain,
Prevent my willing Feet, be mine the Hut,
[38] That from the Mountain's Side,
Views Wilds, and ſwelling Floods,
And Hamlets brown, and dim-diſcover'd Spires.
And hears their ſimple Bell, and marks o'er all
Thy Dewy Fingers draw
The gradual duſky Veil.
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:
While ſallow Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves,
Or Winter yelling thro' the troublous Air,
Affrights thy ſhrinking Train,
And rudely rends thy Robes.
So long regardful of thy quiet Rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendſhip, Science, ſmiling Peace,
Thy gentleſt Influence own,
And love thy fav'rite Name!
ODE to PEACE.
[39]O 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 bad his Storms ariſe!
2.
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!
[40]3.
O Peace, thy injur'd Robes up-bind,
O riſe, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy Train:
The Britiſh Lion, Goddeſs ſweet,
Lies ſtretch'd on Earth to kiſs thy Feet,
And own thy holier Reign.
4.
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!
The MANNERS. An ODE.
[41]FAREWELL, 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 Wizzard Paſſions fly,
By which the Giant Follies die!
Farewell the Porch, whoſe Roof is ſeen,
Arch'd with th' enlivening Olive's Green:
[42] 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 mingling Sons ally'd,
Throw'ſt the prattling Page aſide:
To me in Converſe ſweet impart,
To read in Man the native Heart,
To learn, where Science ſure 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,
[43] Alluring him from a ſafer Rule,
To dream in her enchanted School;
Thou Heav'n, whate'er of Great we boaſt,
Haſt bleſt this ſocial Science moſt.
Retiring hence to thoughtful Cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent Spell,
Not vain ſhe finds the charmful 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, I greet
The comic Sock that binds thy Feet!
[44] O Humour, Thou whoſe Name is known,
To Britain's favor'd Iſle alone:
Me too amidſt thy Band admit,
There where the young-eyed 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 ev'n now, with Echos ſweet,
Caſtilia's Mooriſh Hills repeat:
[45] Or Him
*, 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 prompted Deed;
If but from Thee I hope to feel,
On all my Heart imprint thy Seal!
Let ſome retreating Cynic find,
Thoſe oft-turn'd Scrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this Hour agree,
To rove thy Scene-full World with Thee!
The PASSIONS. An ODE for Muſic.
[46]WHEN Muſic, Heav'nly Maid, was young,
While yet ia 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 a-part
Sweet Leſſons of her forceful Art,
[47] 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'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 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 delightful Meaſure?
Still it whiſper'd promis'd Pleaſure,
And bad the lovely Scenes at diſtance hail!
[48] Still would Her Touch the Strain prolong,
And from the Rocks, the Woods, the Vale,
She call'd on Echo ſtill thro' all the Song;
And where Her ſweeteſt Theme She choſe,
A ſoft reſponſlve Voice was heard at ev'ry Cloſe,
And Hope enchanted ſmil'd, and wav'd Her golden Hair.
And longer had She ſung,—but with a Frown,
Revenge impatient roſe,
He threw his blood-ſtain'd 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.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling Drum with furious Heat;
And tho' fometimes each dreary Pauſe 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 burſting from his Head.
[49] Thy Numbers, Jealouſy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad Proof of thy diſtreſsful State,
Of diff'ring Themes the veering Song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
With Eyes up-rais'd, as one inſpir'd,
Pale Melancholy ſate retir'd,
And from her wild ſequeſter'd Seat,
In Notes by Diſtance made more ſweet,
Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her penſive Soul:
And daſhing ſoft from Rocks around,
Bubbling Runnels join'd the Sound;
Thro' 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.
[50]But O how alter'd was its ſprightlier Tone!
When Chearfulneſs, a Nymph of healthieſt Hue,
Her Bow a-croſs her Shoulder flung,
Her Buſkins gem'd with Morning Dew,
Blew an inſpiring Air, that Dale and Thicket rung,
The Hunter's Call to Faun and Dryad known!
The Oak-crown'd Siſters, and their chaſt-eye'd Queen,
Satyrs and ſylvan Boys were ſeen,
Peeping from forth their Alleys green;
Brown Exerciſe rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leapt up, and ſeiz'd his Beechen Spear.
Laſt came Joy's Ecſtatic Trial,
lie 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 lov'd the beſt.
They would have thought who heard the Strain,
They ſaw in Tempe's Vale her native Maids,
Amidſt the feſtal ſounding Shades,
[51] To ſome unwearied Minſtrel dancing,
While as his flying Fingers kiſs'd the Strings,
LOVE fram'd 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.
O Muſic, Sphere-deſcended Maid,
Friend of Pleaſure, Wiſdom's Aid,
Why, Goddeſs, why to us deny'd?
Lay'ſt Thou thy antient Lyre aſide?
As in that lov'd Athenian Bow'r,
You learn'd an all-commanding Pow'r,
Thy mimic Soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native ſimple Heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
[52]Ariſe as in that elder Time,
Warm, Energic, Chaſte, Sublime!
Thy Wonders in that God-like Age,
Fill thy recording Siſter's Page—
'Tis ſaid, and I believe the Tale,
Thy humbleſt Reed could more prevail,
Had more of Strength, diviner Rage,
Than all which charms this laggard Age,
Ev'n all at once together found,
Caecilia's mingled World of Sound—
O bid our vain Endeavors ceaſe,
Revive the juſt Deſigns of Greece,
Return in all thy ſimple State!
Confirm the Tales Her Sons relate!
FINIS.