« ПретходнаНастави »
And still he asks them of their unknown aims,
Ye mighty foes of liberty and rest,
- Awed at the name, fierce Appius rising bends, And hardy Cinna from his throne attends : “He comes," they cry, " to whom the fates assigned With surer arts to work what we designed, From year
the stubborn herd to sway,
“Let virtue, if she can, my baits withstand;
POEMS OF WILLIAM COLLINS.
(WILLIAM COLLINS, English poet, was born in Chichester in 1721, graduated B.A. at Oxford, and about 1745 went to London to follow literature as a profession. On account of the failure of his “Odes" (1746) to attract attention, he became indolent and dissipated. By the death of an uncle in 1749 he inherited £2000, but his health and spirits were broken, and after lingering for some time in a state of imbecility, he died at Chichester, June 12, 1759. A monument by Flaxman was erected to his memory by public subscription, and his biography was written by Johnson, who speaks of him with great tenderness, and adds that “his great fault was irresolution." His odes now hold a place among the finest of English lyrical poems. ]
How SLEEP THE BRAVE.
(Written in the beginning of the year 1746.)
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
ODE TO EVENING.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Like thy own solemn springs,
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid composed,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding star arising shows
The fragrant hours, and elves
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
The pensive pleasures sweet
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Or upland fallows gray
But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain
That from the mountain's side,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires;
Thy dewy fingers draw
While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
While summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light; VOL. XVII. - 11
While sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;
Thy gentlest influence own,
ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.
[The scene of these stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.]
In yonder grave a druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
To deck its poet's sylvan grave.
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!
And oft, as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
And ’mid the varied landscape weep.
Ah! what will every dirge avail;
That mourn beneath the gliding sail ?
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ?
1 Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried.
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see — the fairy valleys fade;
Dun night has veiled the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu !
The genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: O vales and wild woods! shall he say,
In yonder grave your druid lies!
THE PASSIONS: AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.