ODE

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746.

This, and the succeeding ode, seem to have been written on the same occasion, viz. the rebellion in Scotland: the former, in memory of those heroes who fell in defence of their country; the latter, to excite sentiments of compassion in favour of those who became a sacrifice to public justice.

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.

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 ev'n 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!

TO A LADY,

ON

THE DEATH OF COLONEL ROSS, IN THE ACTION AT 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.

Bless'd 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 naught impart
To dry thy constant tear;
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Exposed and pale thou seest 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:
Ev'n humble Harting's cottaged vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.