And bend the pensive head!

And, fallen to save his injur'd land,

Imperial Honour's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,

Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their sainted rest:

And, half-reclining on his spear,

Each wondring chief by turns appear, To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,

Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,

And gaze with fix'd delight:

Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,

Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And wish th' 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,

F

Proclaim her reign restor❜d:

Till William seek the sad retreat,

And bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the sated sword.

If, weak to sooth so soft an heart,

These pictur'd glories nought impart,

To dry thy constant tear:

If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,

Expos'd 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:

Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale,

Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.

F 2

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,

O Nymph reserv'd! while now the bright-hair'd sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed: