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 destined scene,
His wild unsated foe!

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
The sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

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 soothed by Pity’s lute.

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.

Come, Pity, come, by Fancy’s aid,
E’en now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple’s pride design:
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat
In all who view the shrine.

There Picture’s toils shall well relate
How chance, or hard involving fate,
O’er mortal bliss prevail:
The buskin’d Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.

There let me oft, retired 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.

Thou, to whom the world unknown,
With all its shadowy shapes, is shown;
Who seest, appall’d, the 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 mould
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:
And with him thousand phantoms join’d,
Who prompt to deeds accursed 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, exposed and bare:
On whom that ravening 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 Greece, 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.

Yet he, the bard who first invoked thy name,
Disdain’d in Marathon its power to feel:
For not alone he nursed 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 shared the baleful grove?

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, the incestuous queen
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 power inspired each mournful line:
Though 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 seamen’s cries, in tempests brought?
Dark power, 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’erawed,
In that thrice hallow’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 possest
The sacred seat of Shakespeare’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!

See the OEdip. Colon. of Sophocles. C.

ODE 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, or 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 lovelorn 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 enamel’d side,
When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt allured thy future feet.

O sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth,
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
The flowers 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 laureat 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.

Though taste, though 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, 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.

ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

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 hovering hand,
Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame,
With whisper’d spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loathed 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, prepared and bathed in heaven,
The cest of amplest power is given:
To few the godlike gift assigns,
To gird their blest prophetic loins,
And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix’d her 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 loved enthusiast woo’d,
Himself in some diviner mood,
Retiring, sat with her alone,
And placed 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,
Breathed 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 powers
Who feed on heaven’s ambrosial flowers.
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-piled,
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 sphered 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;
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o’erturn’d the inspiring bowers;
Or curtain’d close such scene from every future view.

ODE,

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country’s wishes bless’d!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
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 Honour comes, a pilgrim-gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

ODE TO MERCY.

STROPHE.

O Thou, who sitt’st a smiling bride
By Valour’s arm’d and awful side,
Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best adored;
Who oft with songs, divine to hear,
Winn’st from his fatal grasp the spear,
And hidest 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 pierced with many a wound.

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even 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 stopp’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 tower,
To thee we build a roseate bower;
Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch’s throne!

ODE TO LIBERTY.

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 loved of old to view?
What new Alcaeus, fancy-blest,
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,
At Wisdom’s shrine awhile 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 power
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 barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.

EPODE.

Yet, even where’er the least appear’d,
The admiring world thy hand revered;
Still, ’midst the scatter’d states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They saw, by what escaped the storm,
How wondrous 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 preserved a part,
Till they, whom Science loved 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 the 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 pleased thy haunts I seek,
On wild Helvetia’s mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favour’d of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie roused 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 bruised,
Whose crown a British queen refused!
The magic works, thou feel’st the strains,
One holier name alone remains;
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail!

ANTISTROPHE.

Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works the wizard 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 through all our land.
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 even nature’s self confounding,
Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.
This pillar’d earth so firm and wide,
By winds and inward labours 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,
Mona, once hid from those who search the main,
Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
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 owed,
For thou hast made her vales thy loved, 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:
Though 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 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 bright 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, retired in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to the immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amazed,
What hands unknown that fabric raised?
Even now before his favour’d eyes,
In gothic pride, it seems to rise!
Yet Graecia’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, graved with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion’s fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureat 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
Even Anger’s bloodshot 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 Briton’s ravaged 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 FONTENOY.

Written in May, 1745.

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 cheerful May:

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.

Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,
Aerial hands shall build thy tomb,
With shadowy trophies crown’d;
Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall rove
To sigh thy name through every grove,
And call his heroes round.

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest;
And, half reclining on his spear,
Each wondering 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 the 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 restored:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.

If, weak to soothe so soft a heart,
These pictured glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear:
If, yet, in Sorrow’s distant eye,
Exposed 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;
Even humbled Harting’s cottaged vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.

ODE TO EVENING.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales;

O Nymph reserved, 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-eyed 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 borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,
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
Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
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;
Or find some ruin, ’midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
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 showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through 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 favourite name!

ODE TO PEACE.

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 bade his storms arise!

Tired 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!

O Peace, thy injured 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.

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.

Farewell, for clearer ken design’d,
The dim-discover’d tracts of mind;
Truths which, from action’s paths retired,
My silent search in vain required!
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 power impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizard Passions fly;
By which the giant Follies die!

Farewell the porch whose roof is seen
Arch’d with the enlivening olive’s green:
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 lovest that ampler range,
Where life’s wide prospects round thee change,
And, with her mingling sons allied,
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;
Alluring from a safer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school:
Thou, Heaven, 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-robed 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 nursed, I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whose name is known
To Britain’s favour’d isle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit;
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are placed each other’s beams to share;
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loosed, attends thy side.

By old Miletus, who so long
Has ceased his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In changed Italia’s modern shades;
By him whose knight’s distinguish’d name
Refined a nation’s lust of fame;
Whose tales e’en now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia’s Moorish hills repeat;
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.

Performed at Oxford, with Hayes’s music, in 1750.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in 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, raised, refined;
Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired,
Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch’d 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 power.

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 Despair
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
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 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 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 smiled, and waved 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 withering 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 though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mein,
While each strain’d ball of sight seem’d bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix’d;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mix’d;
And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired;
And, from her wild sequester’d seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour’d through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join’d 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.

But O! how alter’d was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm’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 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.
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 awakening 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 kiss’d 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.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn’d an all commanding power,
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?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike 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;
E’en all at once together found,
Cecilia’s mingled world of sound
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.

THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
The year’s best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet’s sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in pity’s ear
To hear the woodland pilgrim’s knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft, as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire
And ’mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own’st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail;
Or tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown’d sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill’s side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade;
Dun night has veil’d the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature’s Child, again adieu!

The genial meads, assign’d to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton’s eyes:
O! vales and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!

ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND;

CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY; INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME.

I.

Home, thou return’st from Thames, whose Naiads long
Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay,
’Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth
Whom, long endear’d, thou leavest by Levant’s side;
Together let us wish him lasting truth,
And joy untainted with his destined bride.
Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-lived 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.

II.

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
’Tis Fancy’s land to which thou sett’st thy feet;
Where still, ’tis said, the fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill;
There, each trim lass, that skims the milky store,
To the swart tribes their creamy bowls allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There, every herd, by sad experience, knows
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 the 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,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign,
And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.

III.

E’en yet preserved, how often mayst thou hear,
Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,
Taught by the father, to his listening son,
Strange lays, whose power had charm’d a Spenser’s ear.
At every pause, before thy mind possest,
Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,
With uncouth lyres, in many-colour’d vest,
Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown’d:
Whether thou bidst the well taught hind repeat
The choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave,
When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,
And strew’d with choicest herbs his scented grave!
Or whether, sitting in the shepherd’s shiel,
Thou hear’st some sounding tale of war’s alarms;
When at the bugle’s call, with fire and steel,
The sturdy clans pour’d forth their brawny swarms,
And hostile brothers met, to prove each other’s arms.

IV.

’Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,
In Sky’s lone isle, the gifted wizard seer,
Lodged in the wintry cave with Fate’s fell spear,
Or in the depth of Uist’s dark forest dwells:
How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own visions oft astonish’d droop,
When, o’er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.
Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,
Their destined glance some fated youth descry,
Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,
And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.
For them the viewless forms of air obey;
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair:
They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

V.

To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,
Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow!
The seer, in Sky, shriek’d as the blood did flow,
When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!
As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth,
In the first year of the first George’s reign,
And battles raged in welkin of the North,
They mourn’d in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain!
And as, of late, they joy’d in Preston’s fight,
Saw, at sad Falkirk, all their hopes near crown’d!
They raved! divining, through their second sight,
Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown’d!
Illustrious William! Britain’s guardian name!
One William saved us from a tyrant’s stroke;
He, for a sceptre, gain’d heroic fame,
But thou, more glorious, Slavery’s chain hast broke,
To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom’s yoke!

VI.

These, too, thou’lt sing! for well thy magic muse
Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar;
Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!
Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne’er lose;
Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath;
Dancing in mirky night, o’er fen and lake,
He glows, to draw you downward to your death,
In his bewitch’d, low, marshy, willow brake!
What though far off, from some dark dell espied,
His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight,
Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,
Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;
For watchful, lurking, ’mid the unrustling reed,
At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,
And listens oft to hear the passing steed,
And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes,
If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

VII.

Ah, luckless swain, o’er all unblest, indeed!
Whom late bewilder’d in the dank, dark fen,
Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then!
To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed:
On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood,
Shall never look with pity’s kind concern,
But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood
O’er its drown’d banks, forbidding all return!
Or, if he meditate his wish’d escape,
To some dim hill, that seems uprising near,
To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape,
In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear.
Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise,
Pour’d sudden forth from every swelling source!
What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs?
His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force,
And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse!

VIII.

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,
Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him in vain at to-fall of the day,
His babes shall linger at the unclosing gate!
Ah, ne’er shall he return! Alone, if night
Her travel’d limbs in broken slumbers steep,
With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite
Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:
Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,
Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,
And with his blue swoln face before her stand,
And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak:
“Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,
At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;
Nor e’er of me one helpless thought renew,
While I lie weltering on the osier’d shore,
Drown’d by the Kelpie’s wrath, nor e’er shall aid thee more!”

IX.

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill
Thy muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring
From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,
To that hoar pile which still its ruins shows:
In whose small vaults a pigmy folk is found,
Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,
And culls them, wondering, from the hallow’d ground!
Or thither, where, beneath the showery west,
The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid;
Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,
No slaves revere them, and no wars invade:
Yet frequent now, at midnight’s solemn hour,
The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,
And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,
In pageant robes, and wreath’d with sheeny gold,
And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

X.

But, oh, o’er all, forget not Kilda’s race,
On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,
Fair Nature’s daughter, Virtue, yet abides.
Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace!
Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,
Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,
And all their prospect but the wintry main.
With sparing temperance, at the needful time,
They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest,
Along the Atlantic rock, undreading climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan’s nest.
Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live
Sufficed, and happy with that frugal fare
Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.
Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI.

Nor need’st thou blush that such false themes engage
Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest;
For not alone they touch the village breast,
But fill’d, in elder time, the historic page.
There, Shakespeare’s self, with every garland crown’d,
Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,
In musing hour; his wayward sisters found,
And with their terrors drest the magic scene.
From them he sung, when, ’mid his bold design,
Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!
The shadowy kings of Banquo’s fated line
Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass’d.
Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told,
Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;
Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold,
The native legends of thy land rehearse;
To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.

XII.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to nature true,
And call forth fresh delight to Fancy’s view,
The heroic muse employ’d her Tasso’s art!
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour’d!
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheaved the vanish’d sword!
How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!
Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!
Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!
Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,
And fills the impassion’d heart, and wins the harmonious ear!

XIII.

All hail, ye scenes that o’er my soul prevail!
Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Annan fill’d or pastoral Tay,
Or Don’s romantic springs at distance hail!
The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread
Your lowly glens, o’erhung with spreading broom;
Or, o’er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led;
Or, o’er your mountains creep, in awful gloom!
Then will I dress once more the faded bower,
Where Jonson sat in Drummond’s classic shade;
Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower,
And mourn, on Yarrow’s banks, where Willy’s laid!
Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian’s plains, attend!
Where’er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor,
To him I lose, your kind protection lend,
And, touch’d with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

AN EPISTLE,

ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS.

SIR,
A patriot’s hand protects a poet’s lays,
While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither’d o’er his honour’d tomb;
Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell
What secret transports in her bosom swell:
With conscious awe she hears the critic’s fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare’s name.
Hard was the lot those injured strains endured,
Unown’d by Science, and by years obscured:
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess’d
A fix’d despair in every tuneful breast.
Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frosts the ruin’d seats invade
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play’d.

Each rising art by just gradation moves,
Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves:
The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impart
Each changeful wish of Phaedra’s tortured heart;
Or paint the curse that mark’d the Theban’s reign,
A bed incestuous, and a father slain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o’erflow,
Trace the sad tale, and own another’s woe.

To Rome removed, with wit secure to please,
The comic Sisters kept their native ease:
With jealous fear, declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander’s art almost excell’d;
But every Muse essay’d to raise in vain
Some labour’d rival of her tragic strain:
Ilissus’ laurels, though transferr’d with toil,
Droop’d their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly soil.
As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose;
Goths, Priests, or Vandals, all were Learning’s foes.
Till Julius first recall’d each exiled maid,
And Cosmo own’d them in the Etrurian shade:
Then, deeply skill’d in love’s engaging theme,
The soft Provencal pass’d to Arno’s stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung;
Sweet flow’d the lays but love was all he sung.
The gay description could not fail to move,
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:
One greater Muse Eliza’s reign adorn,
And e’en a Shakespeare to her fame be born!

Yet ah! so bright her morning’s opening ray,
In vain our Britain hoped an equal day!
No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonson knew the critic’s part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.
Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name;
With pleased attention, ’midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought that warms the female mind;
Each melting sigh, and every tender tear;
The lover’s wishes, and the virgin’s fear.
His every strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
The unrival’d picture of his early hand.

With gradual steps and slow, exacter France
Saw Art’s fair empire o’er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew:
Till late Corneille, with Lucan’s spirit fired,
Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired:
And classic judgment gain’d to sweet Racine
The temperate strength of Maro’s chaster line.

But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our poet’s head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give
The historian’s truth, and bid the manners live.
Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry’s trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurel’d Conquest waits her hero’s arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
The time shall come when Glo’ster’s heart shall bleed,
In life’s last hours, with horror of the deed;
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear!

Where’er we turn, by Fancy charm’d, we find
Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dress’d by her hand, the woods and valleys smile,
And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle.

O, more than all in powerful genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o’er the willing breast!
Whate’er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the poet’s warmth may raise,
There native music dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!

Methinks e’en now I view some free design,
Where breathing Nature lives in every line:
Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
And see where Anthony, in tears approved,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved:
O’er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder’d friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.

But who is he, whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injured worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel;
Yet shall not war’s insatiate fury fall
(So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall.
See the fond mother, ’midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
Touch’d to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son’s affection, in the Roman’s pride:
O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:
Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind,)
By thee disposed, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o’er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,
E’en Homer’s numbers charm’d by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander’d more,
By winds and waters cast on every shore:
When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join’d
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet’s name.

Oxford, De,
1743.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER Fidèle, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

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!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or ’midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved till life can charm no more,
And mourn’d till Pity’s self be dead.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A PAPER WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDE-CAKE, GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY.

Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,
By search profane shall find this hallow’d cake,
With virtue’s awe forbear the sacred prize,
Nor dare a theft, for love and pity’s sake!

This precious relic, form’d by magic power,
Beneath her shepherd’s haunted pillow laid,
Was meant by love to charm the silent hour,
The secret present of a matchless maid.

The Cyprian queen, at Hymen’s fond request,
Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;
Fears, sighs, and wishes of the enamour’d breast,
And pains that please, are mix’d in every part.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,
From Paphian hills, and fair Cythera’s isle;
And temper’d sweet with these the melting thought,
The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile.

Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,
Denials mild, and firm unalter’d truth;
Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,
And meeting ardours, and exulting youth.

Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn, while these remain,
With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear,
And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,
With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear.

If, bound by vows to Friendship’s gentle side,
And fond of soul, thou hop’st an equal grace,
If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,
O, much entreated, leave this fatal place!

Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn’d my plaintive day,
Consents at length to bring me short delight,
Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,
And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

TO MISS AURELIA C R,

ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER’S WEDDING.

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,
Lament not Hannah’s happy state;
You may be happy in your turn,
And seize the treasure you regret.

With Love united Hymen stands,
And softly whispers to your charms,
“Meet but your lover in my bands,
You’ll find your sister in his arms.”

SONNET

When Phoebe form’d a wanton smile,
My soul! it reach’d not here:
Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, flies
Before a rising tear!
From ’midst the drops, my love is born,
That o’er those eyelids rove:
Thus issued from a teeming wave
The fabled queen of love.

SONG.

THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Young Damon of the vale is dead,
Ye lowly hamlets, moan;
A dewy turf lies o’er his head,
And at his feet a stone.

His shroud, which Death’s cold damps destroy,
Of snow-white threads was made:
All mourn’d to see so sweet a boy
In earth for ever laid.

Pale pansies o’er his corpse were placed,
Which, pluck’d before their time,
Bestrew’d the boy, like him to waste
And wither in their prime.

But will he ne’er return, whose tongue
Could tune the rural lay?
Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung,
His lips are cold as clay.

They bore him out at twilight hour,
The youth who loved so well:
Ah, me! how many a true love shower
Of kind remembrance fell!

Each maid was woe but Lucy chief,
Her grief o’er all was tried;
Within his grave she dropp’d in grief,
And o’er her loved one died.

ON OUR LATE TASTE IN MUSIC.

Quid vocis modulamen inane juvabat
Verborum sensusque vacans numérique loquacis?
MILTON.

Britons! away with the degenerate pack!
Waft, western winds! the foreign spoilers back!
Enough has been in wild amusements spent,
Let British verse and harmony content!
No music once could charm you like your own,
Then tuneful Robinson, and Tofts were known;
Then Purcell touched the strings, while numbers hung
Attentive to the sounds and blest the song!
E’en gentle Weldon taught us manly notes,
Beyond the enervate thrills of Roman throats!
Notes, foreign luxury could ne’er inspire,
That animate the soul, and swell the lyre!
That mend, and not emasculate our hearts,
And teach the love of freedom and of arts.

Nor yet, while guardian Phoebus gilds our isle,

Does heaven averse await the muses’ toil;
Cherish but once our worth of native race,
The sister-arts shall soon display their face!
Even half discouraged through the gloom they strive,
Smile at neglect, and o’er oblivion live.
See Handel, careless of a foreign fame,
Fix on our shore, and boast a Briton’s name:
While, placed marmoric in the vocal grove,
He guides the measures listening throngs approve.
Mark silence at the voice of Arne confess’d,
Soft as the sweet enchantress rules the breast;
As when transported Venice lent an ear,
Camilla’s charms to view, and accents hear!
So while she varies the impassion’d song,
Alternate motions on the bosom throng!
As heavenly Milton guides her magic voice,
And virtue thus convey’d allures the choice.

Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue,

The strain insipid, and the thought unknown;
From truth and nature form the unerring test;
Be what is manly, chaste, and good the best!
’Tis not to ape the songsters of the groves,
Through all the quiverings of their wanton loves;
’Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or warbled shake,
The heart can strengthen, or the soul awake!
But where the force of energy is found
When the sense rises on the wings of sound;
When reason, with the charms of music twined,
Through the enraptured ear informs the mind;
Bids generous love or soft compassion glow,
And forms a tuneful Paradise below!

Oh Britons! if the honour still you boast,

No longer purchase follies at such cost!
No longer let unmeaning sounds invite
To visionary scenes of false delight:
When, shame to sense! we see the hero’s rage
Lisp’d on the tongue, and danced along the stage!
Or hear in eunuch sounds a hero squeak,
While kingdoms rise or fall upon a shake!
Let them at home to slavery’s painted train,
With siren art, repeat the pleasing strain:
While we, like wise Ulysses, close our ear
To songs which liberty forbids to hear!
Keep, guardian gales, the infectious guests away,
To charm where priests direct, and slaves obey.
Madrid, or wanton Rome, be their delight;
There they may warble as their poets write.
The temper of our isle, though cold, is clear;
And such our genius, noble though severe.
Our Shakespeare scorn’d the trifling rules of art,
But knew to conquer and surprise the heart!
In magic chains the captive thought to bind,
And fathom all the depths of human kind!

Too long, our shame, the prostituted herd

Our sense have bubbled, and our wealth have shared.
Too long the favourites of our vulgar great
Have bask’d in luxury, and lived in state!
In Tuscan wilds now let them villas rear
Ennobled by the charity we spare.
There let them warble in the tainted breeze,
Or sing like widow’d orphans to the trees:
There let them chant their incoherent dreams,
Where howls Charybdis, and where Scylla screams!
Or where Avernus, from his darksome round,
May echo to the winds the blasted sound!

As fair Alcyone, with anguish press’d,

Broods o’er the British main with tuneful breast,
Beneath the white-brow’d cliff protected sings,
Or skims the azure plain with painted wings!
Grateful, like her, to nature, and as just,
In our domestic blessings let us trust;
Keep for our sons fair learning’s honour’d prize,
Till the world own the worth they now despise!