« ПретходнаНастави »
Shoots into port at some well haven'd isle,
ODE TO PEACE.
Come, Peace of mind, delightful guest ! Return and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart : Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view ;
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
And pleasure's fatal wiles ?
The banquet of thy smiles ?
The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make ?
And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequester'd shed,
To be a guest with them ?
For thee I panted, thee I prized,
Whate'er I loved before ;
Farewell! we meet no more?
WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods ;
Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief: Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.
• Princess ! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
* Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !
• Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
" Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land, Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
• Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew ;
None invincible as they.'
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying hurld them at the foe :
“Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestow d,
Shame and ruin wait for you.'
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE
That to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no meaning ;
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations ;
Too covetous of drink,
A poet's drop of ink ?
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow !
Combined with millions more,
Though black and foul before.
Beyond the happiest lot
So soon to be forgot!
To place it in thy bow,
With equal grace below..