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 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 thousand furies shar'd the baleful grove?

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queent 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 pow'r inspir'd each mournful

line;

Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou, who such weary length 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 pow'r, with shuddering meek submitted thought,

Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told,
And, lest thou meet my blasted view
Hold each strange tale devoutly true.

Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice-hollow'd eve abroad;
When ghosts, as cottage maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!
O thou, whose spirit most possess'd
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotion 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!
$148.

Ode to Simplicity. COLLINS.

O THOU, by Nature taught,

To breathe her genuine thought,

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,

Sooth'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
By old Cephisus deep,

Who spread his wavy sweep

In warbled wand'rings 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!
The flow'rs that sweetest breathe,
Though beauty cull'd the wreath,
Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
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. No more, in hall or bow'r,

The passions own thy pow'r.

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.
Though taste, though genius bless

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;
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O'Nature, learn my tale.
§ 149. Ode on the Poetical Character.
COLLINS.

As one, if, not with light regard,

I read aright that gifted Bard,
(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest Elfin queen has bless'd,)
One, only one unrivall'd fair t
May hope the magic girdle wear,

Who first on mountains wild,

In Fancy, loveliest child,

Thy babe and Pleasure's nurs'd the pow'rs of song!

The wish of each love-darting eye!
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,

As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin fame,

Florimel. See Spenser, Leg 4.

It left unblest her loath'd dishonor'd side:

Happy, her 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 heaven,
The cest of amplest pow'r is given,
To few the godlike gift assigns,
To gird their blest prophetic loins,

And Heaven and Fancy, kindred pow'rs, Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bow is, Or curtain'd close such scene from every future view.

$150. Ode. Written in the year 1746. COLLINS.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest!

flame!

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 dress'd with springs, and forests tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd,
Himself in some diviner mood,
Retiring, sate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his sapphire 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 dangerous passions kept aloof,
Far from the sainted growing woof:
But near it sat ecstatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder:
And Truth, in sunny vest array'd,
By whose the tarsel's eyes were made;
All the shadowy tribes of mind,

In braided dance their murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted pow'rs,
Who feed on heaven'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?
High on some cliff to heaven 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 glooms embrown, its springs unlock;
While on its rich ambitious head
An Eden, like his own, lies spread,
I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,
Nigh spher'd in heaven its native strains could
hear:

On which that ancient 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,

Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

§ 151. Ode to Mercy. COLLINS.

STROPHE.

O THOU, who sitt'st a smiling bride By Valor's arm'd and awful side, Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best adorn'd: Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

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!

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 Alcæus, fancy-blest, Shall sing the sword in myrtles drest,

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 reveal-
ing,
[wound!
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted
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 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
With many a rude repeated stroke, [grace,
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand frag-
ments broke.

EPODE.

Yet, e'en 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 wondrous rose her perfect form;
How in the great, the labor'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 relic laid
In jealous Pisa's olive shade;
See small Marino joins the theme,
Though least, not last in thy esteem.
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 ravening eagle northward fled :)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those to whom thy stork is dear;
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, adorn'd by Britain, hail!

ing,

Withering 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 shouldering billows borne.

And see like gems her laughing train,
The little isles on every side-

Monat, once hid from those who search'd the main,

Where thousand elfin shapes abide,

And Wight, who checks the western tideFor thee consenting heaven has each be stow'd

A fair attendant on her sovereign pride;
To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,
For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last
abode.

therto made of it.

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 natives' feet
Were wont thy form celestial ineet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward-rolls, to find its place,
Whether the fiery-tressy Dane,

Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-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 light pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still 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 consorted Druids sing
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?
E'en now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Græcia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues:
Whate'er heaven's purer mould 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 through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain.
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en 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!

$153. Ode to a Lady on the Death of Colonel Charles Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written in May, 1745. COLLINS.

WHILE lost to all his former mirth, Britannia's Genius bends to earth,

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.

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 every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aërial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honor's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every 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.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'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.

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

Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sod which wraps the dead
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign
restor'd:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And bleeding at her sacred feet

Present the sated sword.

If, weak to soothe 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 insulting near:

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep:
E'en humble Harting's cottage vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.