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Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing goddess, stood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self, o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
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?
E'en now, before his favor'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose,
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er Heaven's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, 'grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain :
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around,
"O, how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the West!"

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,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings

With woful measures wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd,
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
"Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose,

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down.
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting
from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on
.Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,

And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measurestole
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung.

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The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd

queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial,

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,
But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempé's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
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 thousand odors from his dewy wings.

O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,

You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page-
"Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
E'en all at once together found
Cæcilia's mingled world of sound-
O, bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

AN ODE

ON

THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE
HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND;

CONSIDERED AS

THE SUBJECT OF POETRY.

INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME.

HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads
long

Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay,
Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future day
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.*
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youtht

Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side;
Together let us wish him lasting truth

And joy untainted with his destin'd bride.
Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name;
But think, far off, how, on the Southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand:
To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;

Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
"Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;
Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill.
There each trim lass, that skims the milky store
To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS and arViRAGUS OVER FIDELE, There, every herd, by sad experience, knows

SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly,
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,
Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie.
Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain:
Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts
neglect;

Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain;
These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign,
And fill with double force her heart-commanding
strain.

*How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers! A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.

E'en yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear, Where to the Pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father, to his listening son; Strange lays, whose power had charm'd a Spenser's

ear.

At every pause, before thy mind possest,

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-color'd vest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,

And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel,

Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms; When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,

The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny

swarms,

And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's arms.

'Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,
In Sky's lone isle, the gifted wizard-seer,
Lodg'd in the wintry cave with Fate's fell spear,
Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells:
How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own vision oft astonish'd droop;
When, o'er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.
Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,

Their destin'd glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigor seen,

And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey;

Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair.
They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,
Oft have I seen Fate give the fatal blow!
The seer, in Sky, shriek'd as the blood did flow,
When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!
As Boreas threw his young Aurora* forth,

In the first year of the first George's reign,
And battles rag'd in welkin of the North,
They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain!
And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight,
Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd!
They rav'd! divining through their second-sight,
Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were
drown'd!

Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name!
One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke;
He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame,

But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke,

To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights,, which happened about the year 1715; at least, it is most highly probable,| from this peculiar circumstance, that no ancient writer whatever has taken any notice of them, nor even any one modern, previous to the above period.

Second-sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders.

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Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath:
Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,
He glows, to draw you downward to your death,

In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied, His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,

Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed,

And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed!

Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood, To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed:

Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape,

To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise,

Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force,

And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse!

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,

Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him in vain, at to-fall of the day,
His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate :
Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night

Her travell❜d limbs in broken slumbers steep,

With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite
Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,
Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:

Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek;
And with his blue-swoln face before her stand,

And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak : "Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils, pursue,

At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;
Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew,
Drown'd by the Kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid
While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore,

thee more!"

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,

§ A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Wisp, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in

! The late Duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pre- the air over marshy and fenny places. tender at the battle of Culloden.

The water-fiend.

SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.

To that hoar pile* which still its ruin shows:

In whose small vaults a Pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wond'ring, from the hallow'd ground!

Or thither, where beneath the show'ry west

The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade : Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour,

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold.

But, oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,

How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung! Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!

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Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,

And fills the impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ear!

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail!
Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Anan fill'd, or past'ral Tay,
Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail!

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread

tides,

Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,

Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,

And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temperance at the needful time They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,

And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus blest in primal innocence they live,

Suffic'd and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.

Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes en

gage

Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast,

But fill'd in elder time th' historic page.

Your lowly glenst o'erhung with spreading broom; Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led;

Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! Then will I dress once more the faded bower, Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade ;t Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower,

And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid!

Meantime, ye powers, that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains attend!
Where'er Home dwells, on hill or lowly moor,
To him I lose, your kind protection lend,
And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my
absent friend!

ODE

ON

THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

There, Shakspeare's self, with ev'ry garland crown'd, The scene of the following Stanzas is supposed to lie on the

Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen, In musing hour; his wayward sisters found,

And with their terrors dress'd the magic scene. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line

Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told,

Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and color bold,

The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse. In scenes like these, which, daring to depart

From sober truth, are still to Nature true, And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art. How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd! When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword!

One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies; where it is reported that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there.

+ Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where near sixty of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings are in terred.

An aquatic bird like a goose, on the eggs of which the inhabitants of St. Kilda, another of the Hebrides, chiefly subsist.

Thames, near Richmond.

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And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,*
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

* Mr. Thomson was buried in Richmond church.

And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meadst assign'd 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!"

↑ Mr. Thomson resided in the neighborhood of Rich mond some time before his death.

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