« ПретходнаНастави »
And still he asks them of their unknown aims,
But vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced,
And the sad charge of horrors not their own,
See Curio's toil your proudest claims efface!
-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 to 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.]
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
ODE TO EVENING.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Thy springs, and dying gales,
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
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
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires;
The gradual dusky veil.
While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
While summer loves to sport
VOL. XVII. —— -11
While sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
And hymn thy favorite name!
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;
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
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,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
Yet lives there one whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
1 Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried.
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
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
THE PASSIONS: AN ODE FOR MUSIC. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound, And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,