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And mourns the fatal day;
While stain'd with blood he strives to tear Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
Unscemly from his sea-green hair 'Midst the green navel of our isle,
The wreaths of cheerful May;
The thoughts which musing pity pays, There oft the painted natives' feet
And fond remembrance loves to raise, Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Your faithful hours attend : Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave, 'Twere hard for modern song to tell.
His country's vows shall bless the grave, Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Where'er the youth is laid : Which guide at once and charm the Muse, That sacred spot the village hind Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve, There happier than in islands blest,
Aërial forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head;
Imperial Honor's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page, How learn, delighted and amaz'd,
Shall leave their sainted rest; What hands unknown that fabric rais'd ? And, half-reclining on his spear, E'en now, before his favour'd eyes,
Each wond'ring chief by turns appear, In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, The secret builder knew to choose .
Shall crowd from Cressy's laureld field, Each sphere-found gem of richest hues :
And gaze with fix'd delight: Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains, Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
Again they spatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight.
But, lo! where sunk in deep despair, Read Albion's fame through every age. Her garments torn, her bosom bare, Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
Impatient Freedom lies ! That near her inmost altar stand!
Her matted tresses madly spread, Now soothe her, to her blissful train
To every sod which wraps the dead
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground, Before whose breathing bosom's balm
Till notes of triumph bursting round
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 O how supremely art thou blest,
To dry thy constant tear;
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Wild war insulting near : 8 153. Ode to a Lady on the Death of Colo- Where'er from time thou court'st reliet,
nel Charles Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy The Muse shall still, with social griel, Written in May, 1745. COLLINS.
_Her gentlest promise keep :
E'en humble Harting's cottage vale While lost to all his foriner mirth, Shall learn the sad repeated tale, Britannia's Genius bends to earth,
And bid her shepherds weep.
§ 154. Ode to Evening. COLLINS. 1 $ 155. Ode to Peace. Collins. Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest
O thou, who bad'st thy turtles bear Like thy own solemn springs,
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair, Thy springs, and dying gales ;
And sought'st thy native skies;
When War, by vultures drawn from far, O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair’d | To Britain bent his iron car,
And bade his storms arise !
| Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway, O'erhang his wavy bed :
Our youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn : Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd
| But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres, bat
| What sounds may charm thy partial ears, With short shrill shriek flies by on leathern Or where the beetle winds
And gain thy blest return! His small but sullen horn,
O Peace, thy injur'd robes upbind ! As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
o rise, and leave not one behind Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
· Of all thy beamy train!
The British lion, goddess sweet,
Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet,
And own thy holier reign. Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
Let others court thy transient smile, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, But come to grace thy western isle, As, musing slow I hail .
By warlike Honor led; . Thy genial lor'd return!
And while around her ports rejoice,
While all her sons adore thy choice, For when thy folding-star arising shows
With him for ever wed!
The fragrant hours, and elves
$ 156. The Manners. An Ode. COLLINS. And many a nymph who wreathes her brows
Farewell, for clearer ken design'd, with sedge
The dim-discover'd tracts of mind; And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My silent search in vain requir'd! The pensire pleasures sweet, ;
No more my sail that deep explores,
No more I search those magic shores,
If e'er I round such fairy field,
Some pow'r impart the spear and shield, Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
At which the wizard passions fly, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
| By which the giant follies die! That from the mountain's side
Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen Views wilds and swelling floods,
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tissued vest,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade!
Youth of the quick uncheated sight, The gradual dusky veil.
Thy walks, Observance, more invite; While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he thou! who lov’st that ampler range wont,
Where life's wide prospects round thee change, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest
| And with her mingled song allied, Eve!
Throw'st the prattling page aside : While Summer loves to sport
To me in converse sweet impart Beneath thy Ktagering light;
To read in man the native heart;
To learn where Science sure is found, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
From nature as she lives around; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air
And, gaz'ng oft her mirror true, Affrights thy shrinking train,
By turns each shifting image view! And rudely rends thy robes ;
| Till meddling Art's officious lore So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Reverse the lessons taught before,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast, And love thy favorite name!
Hast bless'd this social science most.
Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, | First Fear his hand, its skill to try, As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, Not vain she finds the cheerful task :
And back recoild, he knew not why, In pageant quaint, in motley mask ;
E'en at the sound himself had made. Behold, before her musing eyes,
Next Anger rushid, his eyes on fire, The countless manners round her rise,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings, While, ever varying as they pass,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, To some Contempt applies her glass :
And swept with hurried hand the strings. With these the white-rob’d maids combine,
With woeful measures wan Despair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguild;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by hits, by starts 'twas wild. The comic sock that binds thy feet !
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, O Humor, thou whose name is known
What was thy delighted measure? To Britain's favor'd isle alone,
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, Me too amidst thy band admit,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit
Still would her touch the strain prolong, (Whose jewels in his crisped hair
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
She callid on Echo still through all the song; Whom no delights from thee divide)
And where her sweetest theme she chose, In laughter loos’d attends thy side.
A soft responsive voice was heard at every By old Miletus * who so long
close, Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song;
And Hope enchanted smild, and war'd her By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
golden hair. li chang'd Italia's modern shades;
And longer had she sung-but with a frown, By him + whose knight's distinguish'd name
Revenge impatient rose : Refind a nation's lust of fame;
| He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
down, Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;
And with a withering look, Or him I, whom Seine's blue nymphs de The war-denouncing trumpet took, plore,
And blew a blast so loud and dread, In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore;
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe: Who drew the sad Sicilian maid
And ever and anon he beat By virtues in her sire betray'd :
The doubling drum with furious heat : O Nature boon, from whoin proceed
And though sometimes, each dreary pause bez Each forceful thought, each prompted deed; If but from thee I hope to feel,
Dejected Pity at his side On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Her soul-subduing voice applied, Let some retreating Cynic find
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mjen; Those off-turn'd scrolls I leave behind, | While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd barst. The Sports and I this hour agree
ing from his head. To rove thy sceneful world with thee!
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state! § 157. The Passions. An Ode for Music. Of differing themes the veering song was
mix'd ; When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
And now it courted Lore, now raring called While yet in early Greece she sung,
on Hate. The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir’d, Throng'd around her magic cell,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
And from her wild sequester'd seat, Possessid beyond the Muses' painting; In notes by distance made more sweet, By turns they felt the glowing mind
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensire Disturb'd, delighted, rais’d, refiu'd :
soul : Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir’d,
And dashing soft from rocks around, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
Bubbling runnels joind the sound; From the supporting myrtles round
Through glades and glooms the mingled mes. They snatch'd her instruments of sound :
sure stole, And, as they oft had heard apart
Oro'er some haunted stream with fond delay Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Round an holy calı diffusing, Each, for Madness ruld the hour,
Love of peace and lonely musing, Would prove his own expressive pow'r.
In hollow murmurs died away. • Alluding to the Milesian Tales, some of the earliest romances. + Cervantes.
+ Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillanc, wh died in Paris in the year 1746.
But, О how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! No more, O death! thy victim starts to hear When Cheerfulness, a nymphof healthiest hue, Church-wardens stern, or kingly overseer : Her bow across her shoulder Alung,
No more the farmer claiins his humble bow; Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou ! Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, Now to thechurch behold the mourners come, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; Sedately torpid, and devoutly dumb: The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed | The village children now their games suspend, queen,
To see the bier that bears their ancient friend; Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen
For he was one in all their idle sport, Peeping froin forth their alleys green; | And like a monarch rul'd their little court; Brown Exercise rejoit'd to hear,
| The pliant bow he form’d, the flying ball, AndSport leap'dup, and seiz'd his beechen spear. The bat, the wicket, were his labours all;
Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing,
| Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; First to the lively pipe his hand address'd,
While bending low, their eager eyes explore
| The mingled relics of the parish poor : But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best : 1
The bell tolls late, the moping owl Aies round, They would have thought, who heard the
Fear marks the fight and magnifies the sound;
The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care, strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
| Defers his duty till the day of prayer, Amidst the festal sounding shades,
And waiting long, the crowd retire distrest, To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest *. While, as bis flying fingers kiss'd the strings, $ 159. The Village Foundling. CRABBE.
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round; To name an infant met our village sires,
Frequent and full the rural sages sate,
And speakers many urg'd the long debate. Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. Some hardened knaves who roy'd the country O Music, sphere-descended maid,
round Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
Had left a babe within the parish-bound. Why, goddess, why to us denied,
First of the fact they question'd-Was it true Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?
The child was broughi?-What then remain'd As, in that loy'd Athenian bow'r,
to do? You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r;
Was't dead, or living?—this was fairly provid; Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!
'Twas pinched-it roared, and every doubt reCan well recall what then it heard.
moved. Where is thy native simple heart,
Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Was long a question, and it pass'd them all; Arise, as in that elder time,
For he who lent a name to babe unknown, Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime !
Censorious men might take it for his own. Thy wonders in that godlike age
They look'd about, they ask'd the name of all, Fill thy recording sister's page
And not one Richard answer'd to the call; Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Next they inquir’d the day when, passing by, Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry: Had more of strength, diviner rage,
This known, how food and raiment they might Than all which charms this laggard age;
give Een all at once together found
Was next debated, for the rogue would live. Cecilia's mingled world of sound
At last with all their words and work content, O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Back to their homes the prudent vestry went,
And Richard Monday to the work-house sent. Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state,
There he was pinch’d, and pitied, thump'd and
fed, Confirm the tales her sons relate !
And duly took his beatings and his bread; $ 158. The Pauper's Funeral. Crabbe.
Patient in all control, in all abuse, Now once again the gloomy scene explore, He found contempt and kicking have their use. Less gloomy now, the bitter hour is o'er; Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow, The man of many sorrows sighs no more. A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low; Up sonder hill behold how sadly slow
His pliant soul gave way to all things base, The bier moves winding from the vale below! | He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace: There lies the happy dead, from trouble free, It seem'd, so well his passions he suppressid, And the glad parish pays the frugal fee. No feeling stirr'd his ever torpid breast:
• Some apology is due for the insertion of a circumstance by no means common: that it has been a subject for complaint in any place is a sufficient reason for its being reckoned among the evils which may happen to the poor, and which must happen to them exclusively; nevertheless, it is just to reinark, that such neglect is very rare in any part of the kingdom, and in many parts totally unknown.
Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat; | Our pious matrons heard, and much amaz'd, He was a foot-stool for the beggar's feet; Gaz'd on the man, and trembled as they gaz'd; His were the legs that run at all commands, And now his face explor'd, and now his feet, They used on all occasions Richard's hands : Man's dreaded foe in this bad man to meet : His very soul was not his own; he stole But him our drunkards as theirchampion rais'd, As others order'd, and without a dole :
Their bishop call'd, and as their hero prais'd; In all disputes, on either part he lied,
Though most when sober, and the rest, when And freely pledg‘d his oath on either side:
sick, In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest, Had little question whence his bishopric. In all detections Richard first confess'd:
But he, iriumphant spirit, all things dar'd, Yet though disgrac'd, he watch'd his time so He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snar'd;
"Twas his at cards each novice to trepan, He rose in favor, when in fame he fell: And call the wants of rogues the rights of mad; Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,
Wild as the winds he let his offspring rove, And all despis'd and fed the pliant boy. And deem'd the marriage bond the bane of love. At length 'tis time he should abroad be sent, What age and sickness for a man so bold Was whispered near him-and abroad he went; Had done we know not; none beheld him old: One morn they called him-Richard answered By night as business urg'd, he sought the wood, not;
The ditch was deep, the rain had caus'd a flood, They doom'd him hanging and in time forgot; The foot-bridge fail'd, be plung'd beneath the Yet miss'd him long, as each throughout the clan
And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep. Found he had “ better spared a better man."
Now Richard's talents for the world were fit,' $ 161. Funeral of the Lady of the Manor. He'd no small cunning and had some small wit;
CRABBE. Had ibat calm look which seem'd to all assent, Next died the lady who yon hall possess'd, And that complacent speech which nothing And here they brought her noble bones to rest. meant.
| In town she dwelt; forsaken stood the hall, He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide, Worms eat the floors, the tap'stry Aed the wall; How best for Richard Monday to provide. No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd ; Steel through opposing plate the magnet draws, No cheerful light the long-clos'd sash convey'd! And steely atoms culls from dust and straws; The crawling worm that turns a summer-Ay And thus our hero, to his int'rest true, Here spun his shroud, and laid him up to die Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew. The winter-death, upon the bed of state ; But still more surely round the world to go, The bat shrill shrieking woo'd his flickering This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe. mate:
Long lost to us at last our man we trace, | To empty rooms the curious came no more, Sir Richard Monday died at Monday Place; From empty cellars turn'd the angry boor, His lady's worth, his daughter's we peruse, | And surly beggars curs'd the ever-bolted door. And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews: To one small room the steward found his way, He gave reforming charities a sum, fdumb; Where tenants followed to complain and pay; And bought the blessings of the blind and Yet no complaint before the lady came, Bequeath'd to missions money from the stocks, | The feeling servant spard the feeble dame, And Bibles issued from his private box : . Who saw her farms with his observing eyes, But to his na.ive place severely just,
And answer'd all requests with his replies : He left a pittance bound in rigid trust; She came not down her falling groves to view; Two paltry pounds on every quarter's day, Why should she know what one so faithful At church produc'd for forty loaves should pay,
[hear A stinted gift that to the parish shows, Why come from many clamorous tongues to He kept in mind their bounty and their blows. What one so just might whispcr in her ear?
Her oaks or acres, why with care explore, $ 160. The Village Infidel. Crabbe. Why learn the wants, the sufferings of the poor, His a lone house by dead man's dyke way | When one so knowing all their worth could stood,
trace, And his a nightly haunt in lonely wood: And one so piteous govern'd in her place? Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast, Lo! now, what dismal sons of darkness come That he believ'd in neither God nor ghost; To bear this daughter of indulgence home, That when the sod upon the sinner press'd, Tragedians all, and well arrang'd in black ! He, like the saint, had everlasting rest; Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack ; That never priest believ'd his doctrines true, Who cause no tear, but gloomily pass by, But would, for profit, own himself a Jew, And shake the sables in the wearied eye, Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen That turns disgusted from the pompous scene, That fools' alone on future worlds rely, rdo; Proud without grandeur, with profession mean. And all who die for faith, deserve to die. The tear for kindness past affection owes, These maxims, part, th' attorney's clerk pro- For worth deceas'd the sigh from reason flows; fess'd;
| E'en well-feign'd passions for our sorrows call, Ilis own transcendent genius found the rest. | And real tears for inimic miseries fall;