Chapter XXVII

Then all the concert sang with such a shout,
That I anon awaken'd where I lay,
And with a braid I turned me about
To see this court, but all were gone away;
Then up I lean'd me, halflings in affray,
Call'd to my Muse, and for my subject chose
To sing the royal THISTLE and the ROSE.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Alluding to the Houses of YORK and LANCASTER, which were distinguished by the WHITE and RED ROSE, and united in the person of Queen MARGARET.

VERSES ON THE DEATH

OF QUEEN

CAROLINE.

BY MR. SHIPLEY.

Oblivion wraps not in her silent shade
All human labours. Virtue blooms a flower,
That Time's rough hand shall never violate.
Still CAROLINE shall live in faithful verse,
Sweet nurse of Memory, and in the voice
Of grateful Britain. These shall testify
How well her calm impartial rule supplied
A monarch's absence; these commemorate
Her soul contemplative of peaceful Truth
And nature, mindful midst the pomp of Courts
Of wise retirement, and the silent grove.
She stretch'd thro' length'ning shades thy spacious walks,
Delightful Richmond, and the terrass rais'd
Of regal grandeur, whence the eye discerns
Fair Thames with copious waters winding slow
Midst pastures, spreading herds, and villages
Of aspect neat, and villas wrapt in shades:
Fair scene of chearful peace! the lovely sight
Frequent she view'd, and bless'd the honour'd reign
Of her great Consort, provident and mild.
Now wander'd musing thro' the darkening depth
Of thickest woods, friendly to solemn thought:
Now o'er broad lawns fair opening to the sun.
Nor midst her rural plans disdain'd to mix
The useful arable, and waving corn
With soft turf border'd, and the lowly cot,
That half appears, in branching elms obscur'd.
Here beauty dwells, assembled from the scenes
Of various nature; such as oft inflam'd
With rapture Grecian bards, in that fair vale,
Thessalian Tempe, or thy favorite soil,
Arcadia, erst by awe-struck fancy fill'd
With wand'ring forms, the woodland Deities,
Light Nymphs and wanton Satyrs, faintly seen
Quick glancing thro' the shade at close of eve,
Great Pan, and old Silenus. Hither led
By solitary grief shall GEORGE recall
Th' endearing manners, the soft speech, that flow'd
From his lov'd Consort, virtue mix'd with love,
Prudence, and mild insinuating sense:
But chief her thoughtful breast of counsels deep
Capacious, nor unequal to the weight
Of Government. Such was the royal mind
Of wise ELIZA, name of loveliest sound
To British ears, and pattern fair to Kings:
Or she who rules the Scepter of the North
Illustrious, spreading o'er a barbarous world
The light of arts and manners, and with arms
Infests th' astonish'd Sultan, hardly now
With scatter'd troops resisting; she drives on
The heavy war, and shakes th' Imperial Throne
Of old Byzantium. Latest time shall sound
The praise of female genius. Oft shall GEORGE
Pay the kind tear, and grief of tender words
To CAROLINE, thus oft lamenting sad.
"Hail sacred shade! by me with endless woe
"Still honour'd! ever in my Breast shall dwell
"Thy image, ever present to my soul
"Thy faithful love, in length of years mature:
"O skill'd t'enliven time, to soften care
"With looks and smiles and friendship's chearful voice!
"Anxious, of Thee bereft, a solitude
"I feel, that not the fond condoling cares
"Of our sad offspring can remove. Ev'n now
"With lonely steps I trace the gloomy groves,
"Thy lov'd recesses, studious to recall
"The vanish'd bliss, and cheat my wand'ring thoughts
"With sweet illusion. Yet I not accuse
"Heav'n's dispensation. Prosperous and long
"Have been my days, and not unknown to fame,
"That dwells with virtue. But 'tis hard to part
"The league of ancient friendship, to resign
"The home-felt fondness, the secure delight,
"That reason nourish'd, and fair fame approv'd."

THE GENEALOGY OF CHRIST,

AS IT IS REPRESENTED ON THE EAST WINDOW

OF WINCHESTER COLL. CHAPEL.

WRITTEN AT WINTON SCHOOL, BY DR. LOWTHE.

At once to raise our rev'rence and delight,
To elevate the mind, and please the sight,
To pour in virtue at th' attentive eye,
And waft the soul on wings of extacy;
For this the painter's art with nature vies,
And bids the visionary saint arise;
Who views the sacred forms in thought aspires,
Catches pure zeal, and as he gazes, fires;
Feels the same ardour to his breast convey'd,
Is what he sees, and emulates the shade.
Thy strokes, great Artist, so sublime appear,
They check our pleasure with an awful fear;
While, thro' the mortal line, the God you trace,
Author himself, and Heir of Jesse's race;
In raptures we admire thy bold design,
And, as the subject, own the hand divine.
While thro' thy work the rising day shall stream,
So long shall last thine honour, praise and name.
And may thy labours to the Muse impart
Some emanation from her sister art,
To animate the verse, and bid it shine
In colours easy, bright, and strong, as Thine.
Supine on earth an awful figure lies,
While softest slumbers seem to seal his eyes;
The hoary sire Heav'ns guardian care demands,
And at his feet the watchful angel stands.
The form august and large, the mien divine
Betray the [2]founder of Messiah's line.
Lo! from his loins the promis'd stem ascends,
And high to Heaven its sacred Boughs extends:
Each limb productive of some hero springs,
And blooms luxuriant with a race of kings.
Th' eternal plant wide spreads its arms around,
And with the mighty branch the mystic top is crown'd.
And lo! the glories of th' illustrious line
At their first dawn with ripen'd splendors shine,
In DAVID all express'd; the good, the great,
The king, the hero, and the man compleat.
Serene he sits, and sweeps the golden lyre,
And blends the prophet's with the poet's fire.
See! with what art he strikes the vocal strings,
The God, his theme, inspiring what he sings!
Hark--or our ears delude us--from his tongue
Sweet flows, or seems to flow, some heav'nly song.
Oh! could thine art arrest the flitting sound,
And paint the voice in magic numbers bound;
Could the warm sun, as erst when Memnon play'd
Wake with his rising beam the vocal shade:
Then might he draw th' attentive angels down,
Bending to hear the lay, so sweet, so like their own.
On either side the monarch's offspring shine,
And some adorn, and some disgrace their line.
Here Ammon glories; proud, incestuous lord!
This hand sustains the robe, and that the sword.
Frowning and fierce, with haughty strides he tow'rs,
And on his horrid brow defiance low'rs.
There Absalom the ravish'd sceptre sways,
And his stol'n honour all his shame displays:
The base usurper Youth! who joins in one
The rebel subject, and th' ungrateful son.
Amid the royal race, see Nathan stand:
Fervent he seems to speak, and lift his hand;
His looks th' emotion of his soul disclose,
And eloquence from every gesture flows.
Such, and so stern he came, ordain'd to bring
Th' ungrateful mandate to the guilty King:
When, at his dreadful voice, a sudden smart
Shot thro' the trembling monarch's conscious heart;
From his own lips condemn'd; severe decree!
Had his God prov'd so stern a Judge as He.
But man with frailty is allay'd by birth;
Consummate purity ne'er dwelt on earth:
Thro' all the soul tho' virtue holds the rein,
Beats at the heart, and springs in ev'ry vein:
Yet ever from the clearest source have ran
Some gross allay, some tincture of the man.
But who is he----deep-musing----in his mind,
He seems to weigh, in reason's scales, mankind;
Fix'd contemplation holds his steady eyes----
I know the sage[3]; the wisest of the wise.
Blest with all man could wish, or prince obtain,
Yet his great heart pronounc'd those blessings vain.
And lo! bright glitt'ring in his sacred hands,
In miniature the glorious temple stands.
Effulgent frame! stupendous to behold!
Gold the strong valves, the roof of burnish'd gold.
The wand'ring ark, in that bright dome enshrin'd,
Spreads the strong light, eternal, unconfin'd!
Above th' unutterable glory plays }
Presence divine! and the full-streaming rays }
Pour thro' reluctant clouds intolerable blaze. }
But stern oppression rends Reboam's reign;
See the gay prince, injurious, proud and vain!
Th' imperial sceptre totters in his hand,
And proud rebellion triumphs in the land.
Curs'd with corruption's ever-fruitful spring,
A beardless Senate, and a haughty King.
There Asa, good and great, the sceptre bears,
Justice attends his peace, success his wars:
While virtue was his sword, and Heaven his shield,
Without controul the warrior swept the field;
Loaded with spoils, triumphant he return'd,
And half her swarthy Sons sad Ethiopia mourn'd.
But since thy flagging piety decay'd,
And barter'd God's defence for human aid;
See their fair laurels wither on thy brow, }
Nor herbs, nor healthful arts avail thee now, }
Nor is heav'n chang'd, apostate prince, but Thou.}
No mean atonement does this lapse require;
But see the Son, you must forgive the Sire:
He, [4]the just prince--with ev'ry virtue bless'd,
He reign'd, and goodness all the man possess'd,
Around his throne, fair happiness and peace
Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and smil'd in ev'ry face.
As when along the burning waste he stray'd,
Where no pure streams in bubbling mazes play'd,
Where drought incumbent on the thirsty ground,
Long since had breath'd her scorching blasts around;
The [5]Prophet calls, th' obedient floods repair
To the parch'd fields, for Josaphat was there.
The new-sprung waves, in many a gurgling vein,
Trickle luxurious through the sucking plain;
Fresh honours the reviving fields adorn,
And o'er the desart plenty pours her horn.
So, from the throne his influence he sheds,
And bids the virtues raise their languid heads:
Where'er he goes, attending Truth prevails,
Oppression flies, and Justice lifts her scales.
See, on his arm, the royal eagle stand,
Great type of conquest and supreme command;
Th' exulting bird distinguish'd triumph brings,
And greets the Monarch with expanded wings.
Fierce Moab's sons prevent th' impending blow,
Rush on themselves, and fall without the foe.
The pious hero vanquish'd Heav'n by pray'r;
His faith an army, and his vows a war.
Thee too, Ozias, fates indulgent blest
And thy days shone, in fairest actions drest;
Till that rash hand, by some blind frenzy sway'd,
Unclean, the sacred office durst invade.
Quick o'er thy limbs the scurfy venom ran,
And hoary filth besprinkled all the man.
Transmissive worth adorns the pious [6]Son,
The father's virtues with the father's throne.
Lo! there he stands: he who the rage subdu'd
Of Ammon's sons, and drench'd his sword in blood,
And dost thou, Ahaz, Judah's scourge, disgrace,
With thy base front, the glories of thy race?
See the vile King his iron sceptre bear----
His only praise attends the pious [7]Heir;
He, in whose soul the virtues all conspire,
The best good son, from the worst wicked sire.
And lo! in Hezekiah's golden reign,
Long-exil'd piety returns again;
Again, in genuine purity she shines,
And with her presence gilds the long-neglected shrines.
Ill-starr'd does proud Assyria's impious [8]Lord
Bid Heav'n to arms, and vaunt his dreadful sword;
His own vain threats th' insulting King o'erthrow,
But breathe new Courage on the gen'rous foe,
Th' avenging Angel, by divine command,
The fiery sword full-blazing in his hand,
Leant down from Heav'n: amid the storm he rode}
March'd Pestilence before him; as he trod, }
Pale desolation bath'd his steps in blood. }
Thick wrapt in night, thro' the proud host he past,
Dispensing death, and drove the furious blast;
Nor bade destruction give her revels o'er,
Till the gorg'd sword was drunk with human gore.
But what avails thee, pious Prince, in vain
Thy sceptre rescu'd, and th' Assyrian slain?
Ev'n now the soul maintains her latest strife,
And death's chill grasp congeals the fount of life.
Yet see, kind Heav'n renews thy brittle thread,
And rolls full fifteen summers o'er thy head;
Lo! the receding sun repeats his way,
And, like thy life, prolongs the falling day.
Tho' nature her inverted course forego,
The day forget to rest, the time to flow,
Yet shall Jehovah's servants stand secure,
His mercy fix'd, eternal shall endure;
On them her ever-healing rays shall shine;
More mild and bright, and sure, O sun! than thine.
At length, the long-expected Prince behold,
The last good King; in ancient days foretold,
When Bethel's altar spoke his future fame,
Rent to its base, at good Josiah's name.
Blest, happy prince! o'er whose lamented urn,
In plaintive song, all Judah's daughters mourn;
For whom sad Sion's softest Sorrow flows,
And Jeremiah pours his sweet melodious woes.
But now fall'n Sion, once the fair and great,
Sits deep in dust, abandon'd, desolate;
Bleeds her sad heart, and ever stream her eyes,
And anguish tears her, with convulsive sighs.
The mournful captive spreads her hands in vain,
Her hands, that rankle with the servile chain;
Till he, [9]Great Chief! in Heav'n's appointed time,
Leads back her children, to their native clime.
Fair liberty revives with all her joys,
And bids her envy'd walls securely rise.
And thou, great hallow'd dome, in ruin spread,
Again shall lift sublime thy sacred head.
But ah! with weeping eyes, the ancients view
A faint resemblance of the old in you.
No more th' effulgent glory of thy God
Speaks awful answers from the mystic cloud:
No more thine altars blaze with fire divine,
And Heav'n has left thy solitary shrine.
Yet, in thy courts, hereafter shalt thou see }
Presence immediate of the Deity, }
The light himself reveal'd, the God confess'd in Thee.}
And now, at length, the fated term of years
The world's desire have brought, and lo! the God appears.
The Heav'nly Babe the Virgin Mother bears,
And her fond looks confess the parent's cares.
The pleasing burden on her breast she lays,
Hangs o'er his charms, and with a smile surveys.
The Infant smiles, to her fond bosom prest,
And wantons, sportive, on the mother's breast.
A radiant glory speaks him all Divine,
And in the Child the beams of Godhead shine.
But now alas! far other views disclose
The blackest comprehensive scene of woes.
See where man's voluntary sacrifice
Bows his meek head, and God eternal dies!
Fixt to the Cross, his healing arms are bound,
While copious Mercy streams from every wound.
Mark the blood-drops that life exhausting roll,
And the strong pang that rends the stubborn soul!
As all death's tortures, with severe delay,
Exult and riot in the noblest prey.
And can'st thou, stupid man, those sorrows see,
Nor share the anguish which He bears for Thee?
Thy sin, for which his sacred Flesh is torn,
Points ev'ry nail, and sharpens ev'ry thorn;
Canst thou?--while nature smarts in ev'ry wound,
And each pang cleaves the sympathetic ground!
Lo! the black sun, his chariot backward driv'n,
Blots out the day, and perishes from Heav'n:
Earth, trembling from her entrails, bears a part,
And the rent rock upbraids man's stubborn heart.
The yawning grave reveals his gloomy reign,
And the cold clay-clad dead, start into life again.
And thou, O tomb, once more shalt wide display,
Thy satiate jaws, and give up all thy prey.
Thou, groaning earth shalt heave, absorpt in flame,
As the last pangs convulse thy lab'ring frame;
When the same God unshrouded thou shalt see,
Wrapt in full blaze of pow'r and Majesty,
Ride on the clouds; whilst, as his chariot flies,
The bright effusion streams through all the skies.
Then shall the proud dissolving mountains glow,
And yielding rocks in fiery rivers flow:
The molten deluge round the globe shall roar,
And all man's arts and labour be no more.
Then shall the splendors of th' enliven'd glass
Sink undistinguish'd in the burning mass.
And O! till earth, and seas, and Heav'n decay,
Ne'er may that fair creation fade away;
May winds and storms those beauteous colours spare,
Still may they bloom, as permanent as fair,
All the vain rage of wasting time repell,
And his Tribunal see, whose Cross they paint so well.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] JESSE.

[3] SOLOMON.

[4] JOSAPHAT.

[5] ELISHA.

[6] JOATHAM.

[7] HEZEKIAH.

[8] SENNACHERIB.

[9] ZOROBABEL.

A

FRAGMENT.

BY MR. MALLET.

Fair morn ascends: fresh zephyr's breath
Blows liberal o'er yon bloomy heath;
Where, sown profusely, herb and flower,
Of balmy smell, of healing power,
Their souls in fragrant dews exhale,
And breathe fresh life in ev'ry gale.
Here, spreads a green expanse of plains,
Where, sweetly-pensive, Silence reigns:
And there, at utmost stretch of eye,
A mountain fades into the sky;
While winding round, diffus'd and deep,
A river rolls with sounding sweep.
Of human art no traces near,
I seem alone with nature here!
Here are thy walks, O sacred HEALTH!
The Monarch's bliss, the Beggar's wealth;
The seasoning of all good below,
The sovereign friend in joy or woe.
O Thou, most courted, most despis'd:
And but in absence duly priz'd!
Power of the soft and rosy face!
The vivid Pulse, the vermil grace,
The spirits when they gayest shine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!
O sun of life! whole heavenly ray
Lights up, and chears our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The storm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till nature with thy parting light,
Reposes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophy'd roofs of state,
Abodes of splendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep,
Hot Riot would his anguish steep,
But tosses through the midnight shade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to shady cell,
Where Temperance, where the Muses dwell;
Thou oft art seen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn:
Or on the brow of mountain high,
In silence feasting ear and eye,
With song and prospect, which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.
But when the sun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat sits fervent on the plain,
With Thirst and Languor in his train;
(All nature sickening in the blaze)
Thou, in the wild and woody maze,
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighbouring sleep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolness has her seat.
There plung'd amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive in his airy mood,
To every murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quivering in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The distant woodman's echoing stroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vision led,
He holds high converse with the Dead;
Sages or Poets. See, they rise!
And shadowy skim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus strikes the lyre again,
That softened savages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlightening truth, adorning art.
Thus musing in the solemn shade;
At once the sounding breeze was laid:
And Nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe.
Dumb silence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bower:
When issuing from the inmost wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's GENIUS good.
O Freedom! sovereign boon of Heav'n;
Great Charter, with our being given;
For which the patriot, and the sage,
Have plan'd, have bled thro' ev'ry age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace:
Who could not give, who cannot claim,
What but from God immediate came!

* * * * *

THE

EAGLE

A N D

ROBIN RED-BREAST.

A FABLE.[10]

BY MR. ARCHIBALD SCOTT.

The Prince of all the feather'd kind,
That with spread wings out-flies the wind,
And tow'rs far out of human sight
To view the shining orb of light:
This Royal Bird, tho' brave and great,
And armed strong for stern debate,
No tyrant is, but condescends
Oft-times to treat inferior friends.

One day at his command did flock
To his high palace on a rock,
The courtiers of ilk various size
That swiftly swim in chrystal skies;
Thither the valiant Tarsels doup,
And here rapacious Corbies croup,
With greedy Gleads, and sly Gormahs,
And dinsom Pyes, and chattering Dawes;
Proud Peacocks, and a hundred mae,
Brush'd up their pens that solemn day,
Bow'd first submissive to my Lord,
Then took their places at his board.
Meantime while feasting on a fawn,
And drinking blood from Lamies drawn,
A tuneful ROBIN trig and young,
Hard-by upon a burr-tree sung.
He sang the EAGLE's royal line,
His piercing eye, and right divine
To sway out-owre the feather'd thrang,
Who dread his martial bill and fang:
His flight sublime, and eild renew'd,
His mind with clemency endow'd;
In softer notes he sang his love,
More high, his bearing bolts for Jove.
The Monarch Bird with blitheness heard
The chaunting little silvan Bard,
Call'd up a Buzzard, who was then
His favourite, and chamberlain.
Swith to my treasury, quoth he,
And to yon canty ROBIN gie
As muckle of our current gear
As may maintain him thro' the year;
We can well spar't, and it's his due;
He bade, and forth the Judas flew,
Straight to the branch where ROBIN sung,
And with a wicked lying tongue,
Said ah! ye sing so dull and rough,
Ye've deaf'd our lugs more than enough,
His Majesty has a nice ear,
And no more of your stuff can bear;
Poke up your pipes, be no more seen
At court, I warn you as a frien.
He spake, while ROBIN's swelling breast,
And drooping wings his grief exprest;
The tears ran hopping down his cheek,
Great grew his heart, he could not speak,
No for the tinsel of reward,
But that his notes met no regard:
Strait to the shaw he spread his wing,
Resolv'd again no more to sing,
Where princely bounty is supprest
By such with whom They are opprest;
Who cannot bear (because they want it)
That ought should be to merit granted.

FOOTNOTE:

[10] Written before the year 1600.

O D E

TO

FANCY.

BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON.

O Parent of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine;
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand;
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren snow;
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and sea:
While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale:
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water you reside:
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between:
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor;
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each ev'ning warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream;
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spencer thro' a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-soothing sound!
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead;
Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads:
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List'ning to the shepherd's song.
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy,
Can long my pensive mind employ;
Haste, FANCY, from the scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy!
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh;
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels, and the house of woe;
To gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek.
Or to some Abby's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles, lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear:
Give me another horse I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage?----what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where tumult and destruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed,
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield.
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-archt walks, and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun.
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou can'st place me near my love.
Can'st fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss;
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence.
When young-eyed spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At every season, let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to every line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallow'd strain;
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save, when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.
O hear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave.
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre,
Who with some new, unequall'd song,
May rise above the rhyming throng.
O'er all our list'ning passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain:
With terror shake, and pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t' attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottos talk;
Teach him to scorn, with frigid art,
Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart;
Like light'ning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critic's studied laws:
O let each Muse's fame encrease,
O bid Britannia rival Greece!

ODE

TO

EVENING.

BY THE SAME.

I.

Hail meek-ey'd Maiden, clad in sober grey,
Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves;
As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes,
Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.

II.

When Phæbus sinks behind the gilded hills;
You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk;
The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk.

III.

The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmost bow'rs, and cooling caverns ran;
Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance,
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.

IV.

To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene;
And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field,
Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.

V.

The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock,
His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies;
Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.

VI.

Now ev'ry Passion sleeps: desponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride;
An holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul,
Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside.