Thy tender melting eyes they own:
O Maid, for all thy love to Britain fhewn,
Where Juftice bars her iron tow'r,
To thee we build a rofeate bow'r,
And, lo, an humbler relic laid
In jealous Pifa's olive fhade!
See finall Marino joins the theme,
Though leaft, not laft in thy efteem;
Thou, thou fhalt rule our queen, and fhare our Strike, louder ftrike, th' ennobling firings
O Goddess, in that feeling hour,
When moft its founds would court thy ears,
Let not my fhell's mifguided pow'r
E'er draw thy fad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy face,
With heaviest found, a giant-ftatue, fell,
Pufh'd by a wild and artlefs race,
From off its wide ambitious bafe,
When Time his northern fons of spoil awoke,
And all the blended work of ftrength and grace,
With many a rude repeated stroke,
And many a barbarous yell, to thoufand frag
To those whofe merchant fons were kings;
To him who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride:
Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian mcafure:
Nor e'er her former pride relate,
To fad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I feck
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak
(Where when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer, heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
The ravening cagle northward fled):
With thofe to whom thy ftork is dear;
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis`d,
Whofe crown a British queen refus'd!
The magic works, thou feel'ft the ftains,
One holier name alone remains :
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, Nyınph, ador'd by Britain, hail!
Beyond the meafure vaft of thought,
The works the wizard Time has wrought,
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique ftory,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adveric strand +,
No fea between, nor cliff fublime and hoary,
He pafs'd with unwet feet through all our iad.
To the blown Baltic then, they fay,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains round-
ing;
Till all the banded weft at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild ftorm ev'n Nature's felf confounding,
Withering her giant fons with strange uncouth
furprile,
This pillar'd earth fo firm and wide,
By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was pufh'd afide,
And down the fhouldering billows borne.
And fee, like gems, her laughing train,
The little ifles on every fide,
Mona ‡, once hid from thofe who fearch the main,
Where thousand elfin fhapes abide,
And Wight who checks the weftering tide,
*The Dutch, among whom there are very fevere penalties for thofe who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are faid to entertain a fuperftitious fentiment, that if the whole fpecies of them fhould become extinct, they fhould lofe their liberties.
+ This tradition is mentioned by feveral of our old hiftorians. Some naturalifts too have endeavoured to fupport the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correfpondent difpofition of the two oppoLite coafts. I do not remember that any poetical ufe has been hitherto made of it.
There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a Mermaid becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the fhore, and opened her paffion to him, but was received with a coldness, occafioned by his horror and furprife at her appearance, This, however, was fo mifconftrued by the fea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, the punified the whole island, by covering it with a milt, fo that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with is, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the fea, or were on a fudden wrecked upon its cliffs.
Charles Rofs, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written in May 1745. COLLINS.
For thee consenting heaven has each bestow'd, | § 206. Ode to a Lady, on the Death of Colone! A fair attendant on her fovereign pride: To thee this bleft divorce the ow'd, For thou haft made her vales thy lov'd, thy laft abode.
Then too, 'tis faid, an hoary pile,
'Midft the green navel of our ifle,
Thy fhrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-enforcing Goddefs, ftood!
There oft the painted natives feet
Were wont thy form celeftial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treffed Dane,
Or Roman's felf o'er-turn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'Twere hard for modern fong to tell.
Yet ftill, if truth those beams infufe,
Which guide at once and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided cloud that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidit the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model ftill remains.
There happier than in iflands bleft,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe dreft,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their conforted Druids fing
Their triumphs to th' immortal ftring.
How may the poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn, delighted and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it feems to rife!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majeftic, through the mix'd defign;
The fecret builder knew to choofe
Each fphere-found gem of richeft hues :
Whate'er heaven's mould contains,
purer
When nearer funs emblaze its veins ;
There on the walls the Patriot's fight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with fome prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmoft altar ftand!
Now foothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's focial form to gain :
Concord, whofe myrtle wand cau fteep
Ev'n Anger's blood-hot eyes in Acep:
Before whole breathing bofom's balm
Rage drops his fteel, and ftorms grow calm;
Her let our fires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd fhore;
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair;
Till, in one loud applauding found,
The nations fhout to her around-
O, how fupremely art thou bleft,
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the weft!
WHILE, loft to all his former mirth. Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day;
While ftain'd with blood he ftrives to tear Unfeemly from his fea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May;
The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raife,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's defcending wave,
His country's vows fhall blefs the grave
Where'er the youth is laid:
That facred fpot the village hind
With every fweeteft turf fhall bind,
And Peace protect the fhade.
O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms fhall fit at eve,
And bend the penfive head;
And, fallen to fave 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 the fainted reft:
And, half reclining on his fpear,
Each wond'ring chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Creffy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy feel,
And with th' avenging fight.
But, lo! where, funk in deep defpair,
Her garments torn, her bofom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted treffes madly fpread,
To every fod which wraps the dead
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er fhall the leave that lowly ground,
Tili notes of triumph burfing round
Proclaim her reiga reftor'd:
Till William feek the fad retreat,
And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated fword.
If, weak to foothe fo foft an heart,
Thefe pictur'd glories nought impart
To dry thy conftant tear;
If yet, in Sorrow's diftant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou fee'ft him lie,
Wild war infulting near:
Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Mufe fhall ftill, with focial grief,
Her gentleft promife keep:
IF aught of oaten ftop, or paftoral song,
THOU, who bad'ft thy turtles bear
Swift from his grafp thy golden hair,
And fought ft thy native skies:
When war, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bade his ftorms arife!
May hope, chafte Eve, to foothe thy modeft ear, Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,
Like thy own folemn springs,
Thy fprings, and dying gales;
O nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, fave where the weak-eyed bat,
With fhort fhrill fhrick flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His fmall but fullen horn,
As oft he rifes 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedlefs hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Our youth shall fix fome feftive day,
His fullen fhrines to burn:
But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres,
What founds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bleft return!
O Peace, thy injur'd robes upbind!
O rife, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train:
The British lion, Goddess fweet,
Lies ftretch'd on earth to kifs thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.
Let others court thy tranfient fmile,
But come to grace thy wettern ifle,
By warlike Honour led!
Whofe numbers, ftealing thro' thy darkening vale, And, while around her ports rejoice,
May not unfeemly with its ftillness fuit,
As, mufing flow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding-ftar arifing fhows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who flept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows
with fedge,
And fheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier ftill,
The penfive pleasures sweet
Prepare thy fhadowy car.
Then let me rove fome wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin 'midit its dreary delis,
Whofe walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill bluftering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's fide
Views wilds and fwelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-difcover'd fpires,
And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual duiky veil.
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!
$209. The Manners. An Ode.
FAREWEL, for clearer ken defign'd;
The dim-discover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My filent search in vain requir'd!
No more my fail that deep explores,
No more I fearch thofe magic fhores,
What regions part the world of foul,
Or whence thy ftreams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round fuch fairy field,
Some pow'r impart the fpear and shield,
At which the wizard pasons fly,
By which the giant follies die!
Farewel the porch, whose roof is seen
Arch'd with th'enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tillued veft,
By Reafon, Pride, and Fancy dreft,
Comes like a bride, fo trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's thade!
Youth of the quick uncheafed fight,
Thy walks, Obfervance, more invite !
While Spring fhall pour his fhow'rs, as oft he thou, who lov ft that ampier range,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to fport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy fhrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Where life's wide prospects round thee change,
And, with her mingled fous allied,
Throw'ft the prattling page afide:
To me in converfe tweet impart
To read in man the native heart,
To learn where Science fure is found,
From Nature as the lives around:
And gazing oft, her mirror true
By turns each fhifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, imiling Peace, Reverfe the lefto is taught before,
Thy gentleft influence own,
And love thy favourite name!
Alluring from a fafer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Had blefs'd this focial science most.
Retiring hence to thoughtlefs cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent fpell,
Not vain the finds the cheerful task,
In pageant quaint, in motley mask,
Behold, before her mufing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rife;
While, ever varying as they pafs,
To fome Contempt applies her glafs :
With thefe the white-rob'd maids combine,
And thofe the laughing fatyrs join!
But who is he whom now the views,
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the paffions nurs'd, I greet
The comic fock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whofe name is known
To Britain's favour'd ifle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit
(Whofe jewels in his crifped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy fide.
By old Miletus *, who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong;
By all you taught the Tufcan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern fhades;
By him whofe knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's luft of fame;
Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Cattilia's Moorish hills repeat;
Or him ‡, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's fhore,
Who drew the fad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her fire betray'd:
O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy feal!
Let fome retreating Cynic find
Thofe off-turn'd fcrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree
To rove thy fcene-full world with thee!
§ 210.
WHEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she fung,
The Paffions oft, to hear her thell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Difturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the fupporting myrtles round
They inatch'd her inftruments of found,
The Paffions. An Ode for Mufic.
COLLINS.
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,.
Each, for inadnefs rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreffive pow'r.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n at the found himself had made.
Next Anger rufh'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his fecret ftings,
In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Defpair,
Low fullen founds, his grief beguil'd;
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits, by ftarts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely fcenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the ftrain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo ftill through all the forg; And where her sweetest theme the chofe,
A foft refponfive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden
And longer had fhe fung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rofe,
He threw his blood-ftain'd fword in thunder
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat; And though fometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his fide
Her foul-fubduing voice applied,
Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mien; While each strain'd ball of fight feem'd bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering fong was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
With eyes uprais'd, as one infpir'd,
Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,
And from her wild fequefter'd feat,
In notes by distance made more fweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her penfive foul:
And dashing foft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the found;
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure tole,
Alluding to the Milefian Tales, fome of the earliest romances.
Monfieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in
Or o'er fome haunted ftreams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffufing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its fprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthieft hue, Her bow acrofs her fhoulder flung, Her bufkins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an afpiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd fifters, and their chafte-eyed Satyrs and fylvan boys, were feen [queen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercife rejoic'd to hear,
AndSport leap'd up, and feiz'd his beechenfpear. Laft came Joy's ecftatic trial. He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd,
But foon he saw the brisk-awakening viol,
Whofe fweet entrancing veice he lov'd the beft.
They would have thought, who heard the
ftrain,
They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the feftal founding fhades,
To fome unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kifs'd the ftrings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thoufand odours from his dewy wings.
O Mufic, fphere-defcended maid,
Friend of pleafure, wifdom's aid,
Why, Goddefs, why, to us denied,
Lay't thou thy ancient lyre afide?
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r,
You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r,
Thy mimic foul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recal what then it heard.
Where is thy native fimple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arife, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chafte, fublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording fifter's page-
'Tis faid, and I believe the tale,
Thy humbleft reed could more prevail,
Had more of ftrength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found
Cæcilia's mingled world of found-
O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the juft defigns of Greece,
Return in all thy fimple state,
Confirm the tales her fons relate!
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While, nurs'd by you, fhe fees her myrtles bloc,
Green and unwither'd, o'er his honour'd tomb:
Excufe her doubts, if yet the fears to tell
What fecret transports in her bofom fwell:
With confcious awe the hears the critic's fame,
And bluthing hides her wreath at Shakespeare's
Hard was the lot those injur'd ftreams endur'd,
Unown'd by fcience, and by years obfcur'd:
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing fighs confefs'd
A fix'd defpair in every tuneful breaft.
Not with more grief th' afflicted fwains appear,
When wint'ry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frotts the ruin'd feats invade
Where Peace reforted, and the Graces play &
Each rifing art by just gradation moves,
Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves :
The Mufe alone unequal dealt her rage,
And grac'd with nobleft pomp her earlieft ftage.
Preferv'd through time, the speaking scenes im-
part
Each changeful wifh of Phædra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curfe that mark'd the Theban's reign,
A bed incestuous, and a father flain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the fad tale, and own another's woe.
To Rome remov'd, with wit fecure to please,
The comic fifters keep their native eafe.
With jealous fear declining Greece beheid
Her own Menander's art almoft excell'd!
But every Mufe effay'd to raife in vain
Some labour'd rival of her tragic train ;
Ilyffus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' un-
friendly foil.
As arts expir'd, refiftlefs Dulness rofe; Goths, Priefts, or Vandals-all were learning's focs. Till Julius firft recall'd each exil'd maid, And Cofmo own'd them in th' Etrurian fhade. Then, deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme, The foft Provençal pafs'd to Arno's stream: With graceful cafe the wanton lyre he ftrung, Sweet How'd the lays-but love was all he fung: The gay defcription could not fail to move; For, led by nature, all are friends to love.
But heaven, ftill various in its works, decreed The perfect boaft of time should last succeed. The beauteous union must appear at length Of Tuscan fancy and Athenian strength: One greater Mufe Eliza's reign adorn, And ev'n a Shakspeare to her fame be born
Yet, ah! fo bright her morning's opening ray, In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day! No fecond growth the western ifle could bear, At once exhaufted with too rich a year. Too nicely Jonfon knew the critic's part; Nature in him was almost loft in Art. Of fofter mold the gentle Fletcher came, The next in order, as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midft his fcenes we find Each glowing thought that warms the female mind;
+ Julius II. the immediate predeceffor of 1 co X.
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