By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wanderings, round thy green retreat; On whose enamell'd side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet. O sister meek of Truth, Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! The flowers that sweetest breathe, Though Beauty cull'd the wreath, Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. While Rome could none esteem But virtue's patriot theme, You lov'd her hills, and led her laureat band: But staid to sing alone To one distinguish'd throne; And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in hall or bower, The Passions own thy power; Love, only love, her forceless numbers mean: Nor olive more, nor vine, ; Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius, bless To some divine excess, Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply, May court, may charm our eye; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul! Of these let others ask, To aid some mighty task, I only seek to find thy temperate vale; To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale. ODE, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI. [IBID.] How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod By fairy hands their knell is rung; ODE TO MERCY. [IBID.] STROPHE. O THOU, who sit❜st, a smiling bride, By Valour's arm'd and awful side, Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd; Who oft with songs, divine to hear, Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hids't in wreaths of flow'rs his bloodless sword! Thou who, amidst the deathful field, By godlike chiefs alone beheld, Oft with thy bosom bare art found, Pleading for him, the youth who sinks to ground: wound! ANTISTROPHE. When he whom ev'n our joys provoke, The fiend of Nature, join'd his yoke, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey; O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stop'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. That bore him swift to savage deeds, O maid, for all thy love to Britain shewn, To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne! · ODE TO FEAR. [IBID.] THOU, to whom the world unknown, I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye! |