« ZurückWeiter »
Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
There Picture's toil shall well relate,
The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
Allow'd with thee to dwell:
To hear a British shell!
ODE TO FEAR.
THOU, to whom the world unknown
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
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,
But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.
Who shall awake the Spartan fife,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted
O goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,
And all the blended work of strength and grace
Yet, e'en where'er the least appear'd,
In jealous Pisa's olive shade!
See small Marino joins the theme,
Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek,
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near, With those to whom the 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, ador'd by Britain, hail
Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The wild waves found another way,
This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,
And down the shouldering billows borne
Mona,t once hid from those who search the main,
And Wight, who checks the westering tide,
For thee consenting Heaven has each bestow'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.
Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, 'Midst the green navel of our isle,
*The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe pen. alties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their liberties.
†This tradition is mentioned by several of our old his. torians. Some naturalists, too, have endeavored to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I do not remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it.
There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mermaid, becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprise at her appearance. This, however, was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who at tempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
How may the poet now unfold,
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!"
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young
From the supporting myrtles round
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en 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 DespairLow 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 delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd 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 call'd on Echo still through all the song ; And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every 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
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'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,
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
As if he would the charming air repay,
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
E'en all at once together found
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
"Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,
To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls allots; By night they sip it round the cottage-door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, There, every herd, by sad experience, knows
SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly. When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,
Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain:
Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect;
Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain;
These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's ɛido Together let us wish him lasting truth
And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the Southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy 'copious subjects ne'er shall fail;
Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.
*How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers! A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.