5 But she forsooth, more fair than Madge or Kate,
A dainty maid, did deign not shepherd's love;
Nor wist what Thenot told us swains of late,
That Venus sought a shepherd in a grove;
Nor that a heavenly god, who Phoebus hight,
To tend his flock with shepherds did delight.

6 Ah! 'tis that Venus with accurst despight,
That all my dolour and my shame has made!
Nor does remembrance of her own delight
For me one drop of pity sweet persuade!
Aye hence the glowing rapture may she miss,
Like me be scorn'd, nor ever taste a kiss!

FROM HORACE, Book III. OD. 13.

1 YE waves, that gushing fall with purest stream, Blandusian fount! to whom the products sweet Of richest vines belong,

And fairest flowers of Spring;

2 To thee a chosen victim will I kill,
A goat, who, wanton in lascivious youth,
Just blooms with budding horn,

And destines future war,

3 Elate in vainest thought: but ah! too soon His reeking blood with crimson shall pollute Thy icy-flowing flood,

And tinge thy crystal clear.

4 Thy sweet recess the sun in mid-day hour Can ne'er invade thy streams the labour'd ox Refresh with cooling draught,

And glad the wandering herds.

5 Thy name shall shine with endless honour graced, While on my shell I sing the hanging oak, That o'er thy cavern deep

Waves his embowering head.

FROM HORACE, Book III. OD. 18.

AFTER THE MANNER OF MILTON.

1 FAUNUS, who lovest to chase the light-foot Nymphs, Propitious guard my fields and sunny farm, And nurse with kindly care

The promise of my flock.

2 So to thy power a kid shall yearly bleed, And the full bowl to genial Venus flow; And on thy rustic shrine

Rich odours incense breathe:

3 So through the vale the wanton herds shall bound, When thy December comes, and on the green The steer in traces loose

With the free village sport;

4 No more the lamb shall fly th' insidious wolf, The woods shall shed their leaves, and the glad hind The ground, where once he dug,

Shall beat in sprightly dance.

ODES.

THE HAMLET. AN ODE.

WRITTEN IN WHICHWOOD FOREST.1

THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild ;
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care, and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctured beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,

To dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear :
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue:

In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds:
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay:

1 Whichwood forest:' in Oxfordshire.

10

Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon with cloudless ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way :
Their weary spirits to relieve,

The meadows incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare

That o'er a glimmering hearth they share:
But when the curfew's measured roar
Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.
Their little sons, who spread the bloom
Of health around the clay-built room,
Or through the primrosed coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-mown hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine;

Or hasten from the sultry hill,
To loiter at the shady rill;

Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest,
To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honied flowers
The curling woodbine's shade embowers:
From the small garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound:
Nor fell Disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life's golden prime :
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

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30

40

50

ODE TO SLEEP.

1 ON this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep!
Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.

2 O steep my senses in oblivion's balm,

And soothe my throbbing pulse with lenient hand; This tempest of my boiling blood becalm!-Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.

3 Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And sadly toiling through the tedious night,
I seek sweet slumber, while that virgin bloom,
For ever hovering, haunts my wretched sight.

4 Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:
Black midnight, and the blaze of noon, alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death stands prepared, but still delays, to strike.

ODE WRITTEN AT VALE-ROYAL ABBEY1 IN CHESHIRE.

1 As evening slowly spreads his mantle hoar,
No ruder sounds the bounded valley fill,
Than the faint din, from yonder sedgy shore,
Of rushing waters, and the murmuring mill.

Vale-royal Abbey: a Monastery for Cistercian Monks, founded by King Edward I. about the year 1300, in consequence of a vow which he made when