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Thou, the friend of man afsign'd,

With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe : When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,

His wild unsated foe!

By Pella's Bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,

Receive my humble rite :
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tendereft blue,

And eyes of dewy light !

With all its Madowy shapes is shewn ; Who seeft appallid th' unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veii between :

Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!

I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye ! Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd Ay, For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mold What mortal eye can fix'd behold ? Who stalks his round, an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to Neep: And with him thousand phantoms joind, Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind : And those, the fiende, who near allied, O'er ature's wounds and wrecks preside ; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts her red arm, expos’d and bare : On whom that ravening brood of fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait ; Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee?

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Iliffus' diftant fide,

Deserted stream, and mute ?
Wild * Arun too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, 'midst my native plains,

Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles Ted
On gentlest Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shewn ;
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art,

Thy turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, my fancy's aid,
Ev'n now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride design:
Its southern site, its truth complete
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat,

In all who view the shrine.


In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,

The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue ; The maids and matrons, on her aweful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the Bard * who first invok'd thy name,

Difdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's


There picture's toil shall well relate,
How chance, of hard involving fate,

O’er mortal bliss prevail :
The buskin'd Muse Thall near her stand,
And lighing prompt her tender hand,

With each disastrous tale.

But who is he, whom later garlands grace,

Who left a while o’er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove ?

There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell :
There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight
To bear a British mcll!

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queen +

Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the filent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear’d. O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart, Thy, withering power inspir'd each mournful line,

* Æschylus. † Jocalta.

* A river in Suflex.

Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, Thy sober aid and native charms infuse !
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.

The powers that sweetest breathe,

Though beauty cull'd the wreathe,
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,

Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at latt?

While Rome could none esteem,
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,

But virtue's patriot theme,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ?

You lov'd her hills, and led her laureate band;
Or in some hollow'd seat,

But staid to sing alone
'Gainst which the big waves beat,

To one distinguish'd throne,
Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought! And turn’d thy face, and Aed her alter'd land.
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted

No more, in hall or bower,
Be mine to read the visions old,

The passions own thy power,
Which thy awakening bards have told.

Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean :
And, left thou meet my blasted view,

For thou halt left her shrine,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;

Nor olive more, nor vine,
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,

Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,

Though taste, though genius bless
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,

To some divine excess,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,

Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole ;
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men !

What each, what all supply,
O thou, whose spirit most pofsest

May court, may charm our eye,
The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast!

Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
By all that from thy prophet brokee

Of these let others ask,
In thy divine emotions spoke !

To aid some mighty talk,
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel :

I only seek to find thy temperate vale :

Where oft my reed might sound
His cypress wreath my meed decree,

To maids and shepherds round,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

And all thy fons, o Nature, learn my tale.




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Sonce, if not with light regard,
To breathe her genuine thought,

I read aright the gifted Bard,
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong: (Him whose school above the rest
Who first on mountains wild,

His loveliest Elfin queen has blest)
In Fancy, loveliest child,

One, only one unrival'd fair *,
Thy babe, and Pleasure's, nurs’d the powers of Might hope the magic girdle wear,

At solemn tournay hung on high,
Thou, who with hermit heart

The wish of each love-darting eye ;
Dildain'ft the wealth of art,

Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall : As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand,
But com'ít a decent maid,

Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame,
In Attic robe array'd,

With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band, chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call! It left unbleft her loath'd dishonour'd fide ;

Happier hopeless fair, if never
By all the honey'd store

Her bamed hand with vain endeavour
On Hybla's thymy shore,

Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied !
By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear, Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,
By her, whose love-lorn woe,

To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven,
In evening musings now,

The ceft of amplest power is given,
Sooth'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear :

To few the god-like gift assigns,

To gird their bleft prophetic luins,
By old Cephisus deep,

And gaze her visions ild, and feel unmix'd her
Who spread his wavy sweep,

In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat, The band, as fairy legends say,
On whose enamel'd fide,

Was wove on that creating day,
When holy Freedom died,

When he who call'd with thought to birth
No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet.

Yon tented sky, this laughing earth,
O after meek of Truth,

And drest with springs, and forests tall,

And pour'd the main engirting all,
To my admiring youth,

* Florimel. See Spenser, Leg. 4.


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Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd,

By Fairy hands their knell is rung, Himfelt in some diviner mood,

By forms unseen their dirge is fung ; Retiring, fate with her alone,

There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, And plac'd her on his fapphire throne,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay, The whiles, the vaulted thrine around

And Freedom shall a while repair,
Seraphic wires were heard to sound,

To dwell a weeping hermit there !
Now sublimest triumph swelling;
Now on love and mercy dwelling ;
And the, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic notes aloud :
And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy subject life was born ?

The dangerous passions kept aloof,
Far from the fainted growing woof:
But near it fate ecstatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder :
And Truth, in funny vest array'd,

By Valour's arm'd and aweful fide, By whose the Tarsol's eyes were made ;

Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador’d: All the shadowy tribes of Mind,

Who oft with songs, divine to hear, In braided dance their murmurs join'd,

Win'st from his fatal grasp the {pear, And all the bright uncounted powers,

And hid'ft in wreaths of Aowers his bloodless sword! Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers.

Thou who, amidft the deathful field, Where is the Bard, whose soul can now

By godlike chiefs alone beheld, Its high presuming hopes avow?

Oft with thy bosom bare art found, Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,

Pleading for him the youth who finks to ground : This hallow'd work for him design'd?

See Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands, High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil'd,

Before thy shrine my country's genius ftands, Of rude access, of prospect wild,

And decks thy altar ftill, though pierc'd with many Where, tangled round the jealous steep,

a wound ! Strange shades o'erbrow the vallies deep, And holy Genii guard the rock,

When he whom ev'n our joys provoke, Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,

The fiend of Nature join'd his yoke, While on its rich ambitious head,

And rum'd in wrath to make our ifte his prey ; An Eden, like his own, lies spread.

Thy form, from out thy fweet abode, I view that oak, the fancied glades among.

O'er took him on his blasted road, By which a Milton lay, his evening ear,

And ftopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

I see recoil his fable steeds, Nigh spher'd in heaven its native strains could

That bore him swift to favage deeds, hear :

Thy tender melting eyes they own; On which that ancient trump he reach'd was O Maid, for all thy love to Britain fhow, hung;

Where Justice bars her iron tower, Thither oft his glory greeting,

To thee we build a roseate bower. From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,

Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and thare ogs With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue,

monarch's throne ! My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ;

In vain-Such bliss to one alone,
Of all the sons of foul was known,
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers,

ODE TO LIBERTY. Of curtain'd close such scene from every future view.

HO shall awake the Spartan fife,

And call in folemn sounds to life,

The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,

Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,

Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view ?

What new Alceus, fancy bleft,

Shall sing the sword in myrtles drest, row Neep the brave, who sink to rest,

At Wisdom's thrine a while its flame concealing,

(What place fo fit to seal a deed renown'd?) When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, Keturns to deck their hallow'd mold,

It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted She there Mall dress a fweeter sod,

wound! Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.


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O Goddess, in that feeling hour,

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
When most its sounds would court thy ears, Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand, *
Let not my shell's misguided power,

No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
E'er draw thy fad, thy mindful tears.

He pass’d with unwet feet through all our land. No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,

To the blown Baltic then, they say, How Roms, before thy face,

The wild waves found arocher way, W.h heaviest found, a giant-statue, fell,

Where Orcas liowls, his wolfish mountains roundPush'd by a wild and artless race, From off its wide ambitious base,

Till all the banded weft at once 'gan rise, When Time his northern Sons of spoil awoke, A wild wide storin ev'n Nature's self confounding, And all the blended work of strength and grace, Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth With many a rude repeated stroke,

And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fràgments This pillar'd earth fo firm and wide,

By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunder's dread was puth'd aside,

And down the Mouldering billows torne.

And see, like gems, her laughing train, Yet, ev’n where'er the least appear'd,

The little ises on every side, Th’ admiring world thy hand rever'd;

Monat, once hid from those who fearch the main, Sull, 'midst the scatter'd Itates around,

Where thousand elfin ihapes abide,
Some remnants of her strength were found ; And Wight who checks the westering tide,
They saw by what escap'd the storm,

For thee consenting heav'n has each bestow'd,
How wondrous rose her perfect form ;

A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : How in the great, the labour'd whole,

To thee this blest divorce she ow'd, Each mighty master pour'd his soul ;

For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last For sunny Florence, seat of art,

abode! Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,

SECOND EPODE. Till they, whom science lov’d to name,

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, (0, who could fear it?) quench'd her fame.

'Midit the green navel of our isle, And, lo, an humbler relic laid

Thy shrine in some religious wood, In jealous Pisa's olive shade!

O soul-enforcing Gooddess, stood ! See Imall Marino joins the theme,

There of the painted patives' feet Though least, not lait in thy esteem;

Were wont thy form celestial meet : Strike, louder strike th' ennobling strings

Though now with hopeless toil we trace To those, whose merchants sons were kings :

Time's backward rolls, to find its place ; To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride,

Whether the fiery-tressed Dane, In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride :

Or Roman's self o’erturn'd the fane, Hail port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,

Or in what leav'n-left age it fell, Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure :

'Twere hard for modern song to tell. Nor e'er her former pride relate,

Yet still, if truth those beams infuse, To sad Liguria's bleeding state.

Which guide at once, and charm the Muse, Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I feek,

Beyond yon braided clouds that lie, On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak :

Paving the light embroider'd sky : (Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,

Amidit the bright pavilion'd plains, The daring archer heard thy voice ;

The beauteous model still remains. Forth from his eyrie rour'd in dread,

There happier than in islands bleft, “The ravening eagle northward Aed.)

Or bowers by Spring or Hebe dreit,
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those * to whom thy stork is dear :

* This tradition is mention'd by several of cur Those whom the rod of Alva bruis’d,

old historians. Soine naturalitts too lave endenWroíe crown a British queen refus’d!

vour'd to support the probability of the fact, by arThe magick works, thou feel’At the strains,

gumients drawn from the correfpondent difpofit.on of One holier name alone remains ;

the two opposite coafts. I do not remember that The perfect spell mall then avail,

any poetical use has been hitherto made of it. Hail, Nymph, ador'd hy Britain, hail!

+ There is a tradition in the Ile of Man, that a

meriaid becoming enamour'd of a young man of ANTISTROPHE. Beyond the measurt vast of thought,

extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meetThe works, the wizard Time las wrought!

ing him one day as he walk'd on the inore, and

opened her passion to him, but was receiv'd with a * The Dutch, amongit whom there are very fe- coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprize at her vere penalties for those who are convicted of killing appearance: This however was lo misconstruer: bý this birs. They are kept tame in all their towns,

the sea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which her, the punifhd the whole inand, by covering it they make a part. The common people of Holland

with a mist, so that all who attempted to carry on are laid to entertain a superit.tious sentiment, that if any commerce with it, cither never arriv'd at it, hut the viole fpecies of them should becoinje extinct, wandered up and down the sea, or were on a ludden they troulet loi their liberties.

wrecked upon its clitis. VOL. VU.

The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir*d in glory,
Hear that conforted Druids fing
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 unkno vn that fabric rais'd?
Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise !
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design ;
The secret builder inev: to chuse,
Each sphere-found gem of richeít hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains,
When néarer funs emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the Patriot's fight
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 inmort altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Slithe Concord's focial form to gain :
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
Ev'n Anger's blood-thot eyes in fleep :
Lefore whose breathing bosom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and forms grow calm ;
Her let our fires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd fore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations Tout to her around,
O, how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west !

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall fit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;
And, fall'n to save 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 their fainted reft:
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,

To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Creffy's laureld field,

And gaze with fix'd delight: Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And wish th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bofom bare,

Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every fod which wraps the dead,

She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er Mall the leave that lowly ground, Till notes of triumph bursting round

Proclaiin her reign restor'd : Till William seek the sad retreat, And, bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the fated sword.

If, weak to soothe so soft an heart, These pictur'd glories nought impart,

To dry thy constant tear : If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye, Expos'd and paie thou fee'st him lie,

Wild war insulting near

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