Sidor som bilder


The warlike Dead of ev'ry Age,
Who fill the fair recording Page,

Shall leave their sainted Rest :
And, half-reclining on his Spear,
Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming Guest.

Old Edward's Sons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Cressy's laurelld 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 ev'ry 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 restord:
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:

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If yet, in Sorrow's distant Eye,
Expos’d and pale thou see'st 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 humbled Harting's cottag'd Vale
Shall learn the sad repeated Tale,

And bid her Shepherds weep. [In Dodsley's Collection and in Langhorne's edition the fourth stanza is printed thus :

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aërial forms shall sit at eve

And bend the pensive head!
And, fall'n to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honor's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed! C. S.]


IF ought of Oaten Stop, or Pastoral Song,
May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine Ear,

Like thy own brawling Springs,

Thy Springs, and dying Gales, O Nymph reservd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts,

With Brede ethereal wove,

O’erhang his wavy Bed : Now Air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd Bat, With short shrill Shriek flits by on leathern Wing,

Or where the Beetle winds

His small but sullen Horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight Path,
Against the Pilgrim born in heedless Hum:

Now teach me, Maid compos'd,

To breathe some soften'd Strain, Whose Numbers stealing thro' thy darkning Vale, May not unseemly with its Stillness suit,

As musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd Return!
For when thy folding Star arising shews
His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in Buds the Day,
And many a Nymph who wreaths her Brows with

And sheds the fresh’ning Dew, and lovelier still,

The Pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy Car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy Scene,
Or find some Ruin ’midst its dreary Dells,

Whose Walls more awful nod

By thy religious Gleams.
Or if chill blust'ring Winds, or driving Rain,
Prevent my willing Feet, be mine the Hut,

That from the Mountain's Side,

Views Wilds, and swelling Floods,
And Hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd Spires,
And hears their simple Bell, and marks o'er all

Thy Dewy Fingers draw

The gradual dusky Veil. While Spring shall pour his Show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport,

Beneath thy ling’ring Light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves,
Or Winter yelling thro' the troublous Air,

Affrights thy shrinking Train,

And rudely rends thy Robes.
So long regardful of thy quiet Rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest Influence own,

And love thy fav’rite Name ! [This Ode was reprinted in Dodsley's Collection of 1748 with the following alterations :

1. 2. “May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear.”
1. 3. “solemn” for “ brawling”.
1. 9. " While air is hush'd."

• Who slept in flowers the day.” 1. 29. “Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lake

Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile,

Or upland fallows grey

Reflect its last cool gleam."
I. 33. “But when chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain,

Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut.”
1. 49. “So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav'rite name!” C.S.)

1. 24. "


O Thou, who bad'st thy Turtles bear
Swift from his Grasp thy golden Hair,

And sought'st thy native Skies:
When War, by Vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his Iron Car,

And bad his Storms arise !

2. Tir'd of his rude tyrannic Sway, Our Youth shall fix some festive Day,

His sullen Shrines to burn : But Thou who hear'st the turning Spheres, What Sounds may charm thy partial Ears, And gain thy blest Return!

3. O Peace, thy injur'd Robes up-bind, O rise, and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy Train; The British Lion, Goddess sweet, Lies stretch'd on Earth to kiss thy Feet, And own thy holier Reign.

Let others court thy transient Smile,
But come to grace thy western Isle,

By warlike Honour led!
And, while around her Ports rejoice,
While all her Sons adore thy Choice,

With Him for ever wed !

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