High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange shades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,

Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,

An Eden, like his own, lies spread.

I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,

From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

Nigh spher'd in heaven its native strains could hear;
On which that antient 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 th' inspiring bowers,
Or curtain'd close such scene from every future view.

ODE.-WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

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

See, in the Author's Life, the account of a remarkable dream which he had while at school: to that school-dream we undoubtedly owe this ode, and this turn of it.*

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
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 grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a-while 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 ador'd,

Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear,

And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground:

See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands,

And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd 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 savage 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,t
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,

* A high tribute of praise was paid to this piece by the illustrious Sir William Jones, who copied a considerable part of it in his spirited Latin Ode, ad Libertatim, as he himself informs his readers.-Works, vol. 10, p. 394, 8vo. 1807.

An allusion to the customs the Spartans had of arranging their hair before a battle.-B.

D

At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view ?
What new Alcæus, fancy-blest,

Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,

At Wisdom's shrine 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,†

A Greek poet, the reputed author of a very popular Song, in which are these lines:

Εν μυρίε κλαδί το ξίφος φορησω,
Ωσπερ Αρμόδιος κι Αρισογείων,
Οταν τον τυραννον κλαν την,
Ισονομες τ' Αθηνας εποιησάτην.

In mirtle wreathed I'll bear the sword,
As young Harmodius, and the bold
Aristogeiton did of old,

When by a just and sudden stroke

Th' usurping tyrant's rod they broke,

And to the Athenian State her equal laws restored.-C.

The Author confounds the times of the Republic with those of the Empire, in order, by blending the glories of each, to delight the imagination with an era more free than the later, more splendid than the earlier period

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 splendid work of strength and grace,

With many a rude repeated stroke,

And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.

EPODE.
2.

Yet even, where'er the least appear'd,
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, 'midst the scattered states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They saw, by what escap'd the storm,
How wonderous 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 preserv'd a part,
Till they, whom science lov'd to name,

(O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame.
And lo, an humbler relic laid

In jealous Pisa's olive shade!

See small Marino joins the theme,
Tho' least, not last in thy esteem;

Strike, louder strike th' ennobling strings

To those, whose merchant sons were kings;

of its history for surely that Rome, which was overthrown by the northern sons of spoil, had no claim to draw down the tears of Freedom at her fall.-B.