ODE TO A LADY,

44ODE TO A LADY,ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL ROSS, IN THE ACTION OF FONTENOY.Written in May, 1745.

While, lost to all his former mirth,Britannia’s genius bends to earth,And mourns the fatal day:While sunk in grief he strives to tearWhile stain’d with blood he strives to tearUnseemly from his sea-green hair5The wreaths of cheerful May:The thoughts which musing Pity pays,And fond Remembrance loves to raise,Your faithful hours attend;Still Fancy, to herself unkind,10Awakes to grief the soften’d mind,And points the bleeding friend.By rapid Scheld’s descending waveHis country’s vows shall bless the grave,45Where’er the youth is laid:15That sacred spot the village hindWith every sweetest turf shall bind,And Peace protect the shade.E’en now regardful of his doomApplauding Honour haunts his tomb,With shadowy trophies crown’d:Whilst Freedom’s form beside her roves,Majestic through the twilight groves,And calls her heroes round.2ndvariation of Verse 19O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,Aërial forms shall sit at eve,And bend the pensive head;And, fallen to save his injured land,Imperial Honour’s awful handShall point his lonely bed.Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,20With shadowy trophies crown’d;Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall roveTo sigh thy name through every grove,And call his heroes round.The warlike dead of every age,25Who fill the fair recording page,Shall leave their sainted rest;And, half reclining on his spear,Each wondering chief by turns appear,To hail the blooming guest:3046Old Edward’s sons, untaught to yield,Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield,Shall crowd from Cressy’s laurel’d field,And gaze with fix’d delight;Again for Britain’s wrongs they feel,Again they snatch the gleamy steel,35And wish the avenging fight.But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,Her garments torn, her bosom bare,Impatient Freedom lies!Her matted tresses madly spread,40To every sod, which wraps the dead,She turns her joyless eyes.Ne’er shall she leave that lowly groundTill notes of triumph bursting roundProclaim her reign restored:45Till William seek the sad retreat,And, bleeding at her sacred feet,Present the sated sword.If, drawn by all a lover’s art,If, weak to soothe so soft a heart,These pictured glories nought impart,50To dry thy constant tear:If, yet, in Sorrow’s distant eye,Exposed and pale thou see’st him lie,Wild War insulting near:47Where’er from time thou court’st relief,55The Muse shall still, with social grief,Her gentlest promise keep;Even humble Harting’s cottaged valeEven humbled Harting’s cottaged vale[33]Shall learn the sad repeated tale,And bid her shepherds weep.60

While, lost to all his former mirth,

Britannia’s genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While sunk in grief he strives to tear

While stain’d with blood he strives to tear

Unseemly from his sea-green hair5

The wreaths of cheerful May:

The thoughts which musing Pity pays,And fond Remembrance loves to raise,Your faithful hours attend;Still Fancy, to herself unkind,10Awakes to grief the soften’d mind,And points the bleeding friend.

The thoughts which musing Pity pays,

And fond Remembrance loves to raise,

Your faithful hours attend;

Still Fancy, to herself unkind,10

Awakes to grief the soften’d mind,

And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld’s descending waveHis country’s vows shall bless the grave,45Where’er the youth is laid:15That sacred spot the village hindWith every sweetest turf shall bind,And Peace protect the shade.

By rapid Scheld’s descending wave

His country’s vows shall bless the grave,

Where’er the youth is laid:15

That sacred spot the village hind

With every sweetest turf shall bind,

And Peace protect the shade.

E’en now regardful of his doomApplauding Honour haunts his tomb,With shadowy trophies crown’d:Whilst Freedom’s form beside her roves,Majestic through the twilight groves,And calls her heroes round.2ndvariation of Verse 19O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,Aërial forms shall sit at eve,And bend the pensive head;And, fallen to save his injured land,Imperial Honour’s awful handShall point his lonely bed.Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,20With shadowy trophies crown’d;Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall roveTo sigh thy name through every grove,And call his heroes round.

E’en now regardful of his doom

Applauding Honour haunts his tomb,

With shadowy trophies crown’d:

Whilst Freedom’s form beside her roves,

Majestic through the twilight groves,

And calls her heroes round.

2ndvariation of Verse 19O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,Aërial forms shall sit at eve,And bend the pensive head;And, fallen to save his injured land,Imperial Honour’s awful handShall point his lonely bed.

2ndvariation of Verse 19

O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,

Aërial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;

And, fallen to save his injured land,

Imperial Honour’s awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed.

Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,

Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,20

With shadowy trophies crown’d;

Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall rove

To sigh thy name through every grove,

And call his heroes round.

The warlike dead of every age,25Who fill the fair recording page,Shall leave their sainted rest;And, half reclining on his spear,Each wondering chief by turns appear,To hail the blooming guest:30

The warlike dead of every age,25

Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their sainted rest;

And, half reclining on his spear,

Each wondering chief by turns appear,

To hail the blooming guest:30

46Old Edward’s sons, untaught to yield,Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield,Shall crowd from Cressy’s laurel’d field,And gaze with fix’d delight;Again for Britain’s wrongs they feel,Again they snatch the gleamy steel,35And wish the avenging fight.

Old Edward’s sons, untaught to yield,

Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield,

Shall crowd from Cressy’s laurel’d field,

And gaze with fix’d delight;

Again for Britain’s wrongs they feel,

Again they snatch the gleamy steel,35

And wish the avenging fight.

But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,Her garments torn, her bosom bare,Impatient Freedom lies!Her matted tresses madly spread,40To every sod, which wraps the dead,She turns her joyless eyes.

But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,

Her garments torn, her bosom bare,

Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted tresses madly spread,40

To every sod, which wraps the dead,

She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne’er shall she leave that lowly groundTill notes of triumph bursting roundProclaim her reign restored:45Till William seek the sad retreat,And, bleeding at her sacred feet,Present the sated sword.

Ne’er shall she leave that lowly ground

Till notes of triumph bursting round

Proclaim her reign restored:45

Till William seek the sad retreat,

And, bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the sated sword.

If, drawn by all a lover’s art,If, weak to soothe so soft a heart,These pictured glories nought impart,50To dry thy constant tear:If, yet, in Sorrow’s distant eye,Exposed and pale thou see’st him lie,Wild War insulting near:

If, drawn by all a lover’s art,

If, weak to soothe so soft a heart,

These pictured glories nought impart,50

To dry thy constant tear:

If, yet, in Sorrow’s distant eye,

Exposed and pale thou see’st him lie,

Wild War insulting near:

47Where’er from time thou court’st relief,55The Muse shall still, with social grief,Her gentlest promise keep;Even humble Harting’s cottaged valeEven humbled Harting’s cottaged vale[33]Shall learn the sad repeated tale,And bid her shepherds weep.60

Where’er from time thou court’st relief,55

The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep;

Even humble Harting’s cottaged vale

Even humbled Harting’s cottaged vale[33]

Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.60

48ODE TO EVENING.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear,May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,Like thy own solemn springs,Like thy own brawling springs,Thy springs, and dying gales;O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun5Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O’erhang his wavy bed:While air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed batNow air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed batWith short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;10Or where the beetle windsHis small but sullen horn,49As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:Now teach me, maid composed,15To breathe some soften’d strain,Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,May not unseemly with its stillness suit;As, musing slow, I hailThy genial loved return!20For when thy folding-star arising showsHis paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant Hours, and ElvesWho slept in flowers the day,Who slept in buds the day,And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,25And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,The pensive Pleasures sweet,Prepare thy shadowy car.Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lakeCheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;Or find some ruin, ’midst its dreary dells,3050Whose walls more awful nodBy thy religious gleams.But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,That, from the mountain’s side,35Views wilds, and swelling floods,And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires;And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er allThy dewy fingers drawThe gradual dusky veil.40While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!While Summer loves to sportBeneath thy lingering light;While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;45Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,Affrights thy shrinking train,And rudely rends thy robes;51So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp’d Health,Thy gentlest influence own,And hymn thy favourite name!So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,50Thy gentlest influence own,And love thy favourite name!

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear,

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun5Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O’erhang his wavy bed:

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun5

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O’erhang his wavy bed:

While air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed batNow air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed batWith short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;10Or where the beetle windsHis small but sullen horn,

While air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;10

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

49As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:Now teach me, maid composed,15To breathe some soften’d strain,

As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,15

To breathe some soften’d strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,May not unseemly with its stillness suit;As, musing slow, I hailThy genial loved return!20

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!20

For when thy folding-star arising showsHis paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant Hours, and ElvesWho slept in flowers the day,Who slept in buds the day,

For when thy folding-star arising shows

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in flowers the day,

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,25And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,The pensive Pleasures sweet,Prepare thy shadowy car.

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,25

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lakeCheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;Or find some ruin, ’midst its dreary dells,3050Whose walls more awful nodBy thy religious gleams.

Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lakeCheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,

Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lake

Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;

Or find some ruin, ’midst its dreary dells,30

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,That, from the mountain’s side,35Views wilds, and swelling floods,

But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,

But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,

Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That, from the mountain’s side,35

Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires;And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er allThy dewy fingers drawThe gradual dusky veil.40

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires;

And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.40

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!While Summer loves to sportBeneath thy lingering light;

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;45Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,Affrights thy shrinking train,And rudely rends thy robes;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;45

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

51So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp’d Health,Thy gentlest influence own,And hymn thy favourite name!So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,50Thy gentlest influence own,And love thy favourite name!

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp’d Health,Thy gentlest influence own,And hymn thy favourite name!

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp’d Health,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And hymn thy favourite name!

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,50

Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

52ODE TO PEACE.

O thou, who bad’st thy turtles bearSwift from his grasp thy golden hair,And sought’st thy native skies;When War, by vultures drawn from far,To Britain bent his iron car,5And bade his storms arise!Tired of his rude tyrannic sway,Our youth shall fix some festive day,His sullen shrines to burn:But thou who hear’st the turning spheres,10What sounds may charm thy partial ears,And gain thy blest return!O Peace, thy injured robes up-bind!O rise! and leave not one behindOf all thy beamy train;15The British Lion, goddess sweet,Lies stretch’d on earth to kiss thy feet,And own thy holier reign.53Let others court thy transient smile,But come to grace thy western isle,20By warlike Honour led;And, while around her ports rejoice,While all her sons adore thy choice,With him for ever wed!

O thou, who bad’st thy turtles bear

Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,

And sought’st thy native skies;

When War, by vultures drawn from far,

To Britain bent his iron car,5

And bade his storms arise!

Tired of his rude tyrannic sway,Our youth shall fix some festive day,His sullen shrines to burn:But thou who hear’st the turning spheres,10What sounds may charm thy partial ears,And gain thy blest return!

Tired of his rude tyrannic sway,

Our youth shall fix some festive day,

His sullen shrines to burn:

But thou who hear’st the turning spheres,10

What sounds may charm thy partial ears,

And gain thy blest return!

O Peace, thy injured robes up-bind!O rise! and leave not one behindOf all thy beamy train;15The British Lion, goddess sweet,Lies stretch’d on earth to kiss thy feet,And own thy holier reign.

O Peace, thy injured robes up-bind!

O rise! and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy train;15

The British Lion, goddess sweet,

Lies stretch’d on earth to kiss thy feet,

And own thy holier reign.

53Let others court thy transient smile,But come to grace thy western isle,20By warlike Honour led;And, while around her ports rejoice,While all her sons adore thy choice,With him for ever wed!

Let others court thy transient smile,

But come to grace thy western isle,20

By warlike Honour led;

And, while around her ports rejoice,

While all her sons adore thy choice,

With him for ever wed!

54THE MANNERS.AN ODE.

Farewell, for clearer ken design’d,The dim-discover’d tracts of mind;Truths which, from action’s paths retired,My silent search in vain required!No more my sail that deep explores;5No more I search those magic shores;What regions part the world of soul,Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:If e’er I round such fairy field,Some power impart the spear and shield,10At which the wizard Passions fly;By which the giant Follies die!Farewell the porch whose roof is seenArch’d with the enlivening olive’s green:Where Science, prank’d in tissued vest,15By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,Comes, like a bride, so trim array’d,To wed with Doubt in Plato’s shade!Youth of the quick uncheated sight,Thy walks, Observance, more invite!2055O thou who lovest that ampler range,Where life’s wide prospects round thee change,And, with her mingling sons allied,Throw’st the prattling page aside,To me, in converse sweet, impart25To read in man the native heart;To learn, where Science sure is found,From Nature as she lives around;And, gazing oft her mirror true,By turns each shifting image view!30Till meddling Art’s officious loreReverse the lessons taught before;Alluring from a safer rule,To dream in her enchanted school:Thou, Heaven, whate’er of great we boast,35Hast blest this social science most.Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,As Fancy breathes her potent spell,Not vain she finds the charmful task,In pageant quaint, in motley mask;40Behold, before her musing eyes,The countless Manners round her rise;While, ever varying as they pass,To some Contempt applies her glass:With these the white-robed maids combine;45And those the laughing satyrs join!But who is he whom now she views,In robe of wild contending hues?56Thou by the Passions nursed, I greetThe comic sock that binds thy feet!50O Humour, thou whose name is knownTo Britain’s favour’d isle alone:Me too amidst thy band admit;There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,(Whose jewels in his crispéd hair55Are placed each other’s beams to share;Whom no delights from thee divide)In laughter loosed, attends thy side.By old Miletus,[34]who so longHas ceased his love-inwoven song;60By all you taught the Tuscan maids,In changed Italia’s modern shades;By him[35]whose knight’s distinguish’d nameRefined a nation’s lust of fame;Whose tales e’en now, with echoes sweet,65Castilia’s Moorish hills repeat;Or him[36]whom Seine’s blue nymphs deplore,In watchet weeds on Gallia’s shore;Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,By virtues in her sire betray’d.7057O Nature boon, from whom proceedEach forceful thought, each prompted deed;If but from thee I hope to feel,On all my heart imprint thy seal!Let some retreating cynic find75Those oft-turn’d scrolls I leave behind:The Sports and I this hour agree,To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

Farewell, for clearer ken design’d,

The dim-discover’d tracts of mind;

Truths which, from action’s paths retired,

My silent search in vain required!

No more my sail that deep explores;5

No more I search those magic shores;

What regions part the world of soul,

Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:

If e’er I round such fairy field,

Some power impart the spear and shield,10

At which the wizard Passions fly;

By which the giant Follies die!

Farewell the porch whose roof is seenArch’d with the enlivening olive’s green:Where Science, prank’d in tissued vest,15By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,Comes, like a bride, so trim array’d,To wed with Doubt in Plato’s shade!

Farewell the porch whose roof is seen

Arch’d with the enlivening olive’s green:

Where Science, prank’d in tissued vest,15

By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,

Comes, like a bride, so trim array’d,

To wed with Doubt in Plato’s shade!

Youth of the quick uncheated sight,Thy walks, Observance, more invite!2055O thou who lovest that ampler range,Where life’s wide prospects round thee change,And, with her mingling sons allied,Throw’st the prattling page aside,To me, in converse sweet, impart25To read in man the native heart;To learn, where Science sure is found,From Nature as she lives around;And, gazing oft her mirror true,By turns each shifting image view!30Till meddling Art’s officious loreReverse the lessons taught before;Alluring from a safer rule,To dream in her enchanted school:Thou, Heaven, whate’er of great we boast,35Hast blest this social science most.

Youth of the quick uncheated sight,

Thy walks, Observance, more invite!20

O thou who lovest that ampler range,

Where life’s wide prospects round thee change,

And, with her mingling sons allied,

Throw’st the prattling page aside,

To me, in converse sweet, impart25

To read in man the native heart;

To learn, where Science sure is found,

From Nature as she lives around;

And, gazing oft her mirror true,

By turns each shifting image view!30

Till meddling Art’s officious lore

Reverse the lessons taught before;

Alluring from a safer rule,

To dream in her enchanted school:

Thou, Heaven, whate’er of great we boast,35

Hast blest this social science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,As Fancy breathes her potent spell,Not vain she finds the charmful task,In pageant quaint, in motley mask;40Behold, before her musing eyes,The countless Manners round her rise;While, ever varying as they pass,To some Contempt applies her glass:With these the white-robed maids combine;45And those the laughing satyrs join!But who is he whom now she views,In robe of wild contending hues?56Thou by the Passions nursed, I greetThe comic sock that binds thy feet!50O Humour, thou whose name is knownTo Britain’s favour’d isle alone:Me too amidst thy band admit;There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,(Whose jewels in his crispéd hair55Are placed each other’s beams to share;Whom no delights from thee divide)In laughter loosed, attends thy side.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,

As Fancy breathes her potent spell,

Not vain she finds the charmful task,

In pageant quaint, in motley mask;40

Behold, before her musing eyes,

The countless Manners round her rise;

While, ever varying as they pass,

To some Contempt applies her glass:

With these the white-robed maids combine;45

And those the laughing satyrs join!

But who is he whom now she views,

In robe of wild contending hues?

Thou by the Passions nursed, I greet

The comic sock that binds thy feet!50

O Humour, thou whose name is known

To Britain’s favour’d isle alone:

Me too amidst thy band admit;

There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,

(Whose jewels in his crispéd hair55

Are placed each other’s beams to share;

Whom no delights from thee divide)

In laughter loosed, attends thy side.

By old Miletus,[34]who so longHas ceased his love-inwoven song;60By all you taught the Tuscan maids,In changed Italia’s modern shades;By him[35]whose knight’s distinguish’d nameRefined a nation’s lust of fame;Whose tales e’en now, with echoes sweet,65Castilia’s Moorish hills repeat;Or him[36]whom Seine’s blue nymphs deplore,In watchet weeds on Gallia’s shore;Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,By virtues in her sire betray’d.70

By old Miletus,[34]who so long

Has ceased his love-inwoven song;60

By all you taught the Tuscan maids,

In changed Italia’s modern shades;

By him[35]whose knight’s distinguish’d name

Refined a nation’s lust of fame;

Whose tales e’en now, with echoes sweet,65

Castilia’s Moorish hills repeat;

Or him[36]whom Seine’s blue nymphs deplore,

In watchet weeds on Gallia’s shore;

Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,

By virtues in her sire betray’d.70

57O Nature boon, from whom proceedEach forceful thought, each prompted deed;If but from thee I hope to feel,On all my heart imprint thy seal!Let some retreating cynic find75Those oft-turn’d scrolls I leave behind:The Sports and I this hour agree,To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;

If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy seal!

Let some retreating cynic find75

Those oft-turn’d scrolls I leave behind:

The Sports and I this hour agree,

To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

58THE PASSIONS.AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

Performed at Oxford, with Hayes’s music, in 1750.

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,5Possest beyond the Muse’s painting:By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturb’d, delighted, raised, refined;Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired,Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspired,10From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatch’d her instruments of sound;And, as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each (for Madness ruled the hour)15Would 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.2059Next 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 Despair25Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;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 delightful measure?What was thy delighted measure?30Still it whisper’d promised 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;35And, where her sweetest theme she chose,A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.And longer had she sung;––but, with a frown,Revenge impatient rose:40He threw his blood-stain’d sword, in thunder, down;And, with a withering look,The war-denouncing trumpet took,60And blew a blast so loud and dread,Were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of woe!45And, ever and anon, he beatThe doubling drum, with furious heat;And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,Dejected Pity, at his side,Her soul-subduing voice applied,50Yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mein,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;55And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate.With eyes upraised, as one inspired,Pale Melancholy sate retired;And, from her wild sequester’d seat,In notes by distance made more sweet,60Pour’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 measure stole,Or, o’er some haunted stream, with fond delay,65Round an holy calm diffusing,Love of Peace, and lonely musing,In hollow murmurs died away.61But O! how alter’d was its sprightlier tone,When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,70Her bow across her shoulder flung,Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,The hunter’s call, to Faun and Dryad known!The oak-crown’d Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,75Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen,Peeping from forth their alleys green:Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial:80He, 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 loved the best;They would have thought who heard the strain85They saw, in Tempe’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 framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:90Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.O Music! sphere-descended maid,95Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid!62Why, goddess! why, to us denied,Lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside?As, in that loved Athenian bower,You learn’d an all commanding power,100Thy 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,105Warm, energetic, 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,110Had more of strength, diviner rage,Than all which charms this laggard age;E’en all at once together found,Cecilia’s mingled world of sound––O bid our vain endeavours cease;115Revive the just designs of Greece:Return in all thy simple state!Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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,5

Possest beyond the Muse’s painting:

By turns they felt the glowing mind

Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined;

Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired,

Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspired,10

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 ruled the hour)15

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.20

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.20

59Next 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.

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 Despair25Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;A solemn, strange, and mingled air;’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild.

With woful measures wan Despair25

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;

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 delightful measure?What was thy delighted measure?30Still it whisper’d promised 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;35And, where her sweetest theme she chose,A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.And longer had she sung;––but, with a frown,Revenge impatient rose:40He threw his blood-stain’d sword, in thunder, down;And, with a withering look,The war-denouncing trumpet took,60And blew a blast so loud and dread,Were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of woe!45And, ever and anon, he beatThe doubling drum, with furious heat;And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,Dejected Pity, at his side,Her soul-subduing voice applied,50Yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mein,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;55And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delightful measure?

What was thy delighted measure?30

Still it whisper’d promised 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;35

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung;––but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose:40

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 sounds so full of woe!45

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,50

Yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mein,

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;55

And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,Pale Melancholy sate retired;And, from her wild sequester’d seat,In notes by distance made more sweet,60Pour’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 measure stole,Or, o’er some haunted stream, with fond delay,65Round an holy calm diffusing,Love of Peace, and lonely musing,In hollow murmurs died away.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sate retired;

And, from her wild sequester’d seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,60

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 measure stole,

Or, o’er some haunted stream, with fond delay,65

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of Peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

61But O! how alter’d was its sprightlier tone,When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,70Her bow across her shoulder flung,Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,The hunter’s call, to Faun and Dryad known!The oak-crown’d Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,75Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen,Peeping from forth their alleys green:Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial:80He, 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 loved the best;They would have thought who heard the strain85They saw, in Tempe’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 framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:90Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

But O! how alter’d was its sprightlier tone,

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,70

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter’s call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown’d Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,75

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial:80

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 loved the best;

They would have thought who heard the strain85

They saw, in Tempe’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 framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:90

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,

Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,95Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid!62Why, goddess! why, to us denied,Lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside?As, in that loved Athenian bower,You learn’d an all commanding power,100Thy 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,105Warm, energetic, 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,110Had more of strength, diviner rage,Than all which charms this laggard age;E’en all at once together found,Cecilia’s mingled world of sound––O bid our vain endeavours cease;115Revive the just designs of Greece:Return in all thy simple state!Confirm the tales her sons relate!

O Music! sphere-descended maid,95

Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid!

Why, goddess! why, to us denied,

Lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside?

As, in that loved Athenian bower,

You learn’d an all commanding power,100

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,105

Warm, energetic, 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,110

Had more of strength, diviner rage,

Than all which charms this laggard age;

E’en all at once together found,

Cecilia’s mingled world of sound––

O bid our vain endeavours cease;115

Revive the just designs of Greece:

Return in all thy simple state!

Confirm the tales her sons relate!

63ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,Where slowly winds the stealing wave;The year’s best sweets shall duteous riseTo deck its poet’s sylvan grave.In yon deep bed of whispering reeds5His airy harp[37]shall now be laid,That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,May love through life the soothing shade.Then maids and youths shall linger here,And while its sounds at distance swell,10Shall sadly seem in pity’s earTo hear the woodland pilgrim’s knell.64Remembrance oft shall haunt the shoreWhen Thames in summer wreaths is drest,And oft suspend the dashing oar,15To bid his gentle spirit rest!And oft, as ease and health retireTo breezy lawn, or forest deep,The friend shall view yon whitening[38]spireAnd ’mid the varied landscape weep.20But thou who own’st that earthly bed,But thou, who own’st that earthy 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 eye25Shall 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 tideNo sedge-crown’d sisters now attend,30Now waft me from the green hill’s side,Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!65And see, the fairy valleys fade;Dun night has veil’d the solemn view!Yet once again, dear parted shade,35Meek Nature’s Child, again adieu!The genial meads,[39]assign’d to blessThy life, shall mourn thy early doom;Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,With simple hands, thy rural tomb.40Long, long, thy stone and pointed clayShall melt the musing Briton’s eyes:O! vales and wild woods, shall he say,In yonder grave your Druid lies!

In yonder grave a Druid lies,Where slowly winds the stealing wave;The year’s best sweets shall duteous riseTo deck its poet’s sylvan grave.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave;

The year’s best sweets shall duteous rise

To deck its poet’s sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds5His airy harp[37]shall now be laid,That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,May love through life the soothing shade.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds5

His airy harp[37]shall now be laid,

That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,And while its sounds at distance swell,10Shall sadly seem in pity’s earTo hear the woodland pilgrim’s knell.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,

And while its sounds at distance swell,10

Shall sadly seem in pity’s ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim’s knell.

64Remembrance oft shall haunt the shoreWhen Thames in summer wreaths is drest,And oft suspend the dashing oar,15To bid his gentle spirit rest!

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,

And oft suspend the dashing oar,15

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft, as ease and health retireTo breezy lawn, or forest deep,The friend shall view yon whitening[38]spireAnd ’mid the varied landscape weep.20

And oft, as ease and health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening[38]spire

And ’mid the varied landscape weep.20

But thou who own’st that earthly bed,But thou, who own’st that earthy bed,Ah! what will every dirge avail;Or tears, which love and pity shed,That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

But thou who own’st that earthly bed,

But thou, who own’st that earthy 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 eye25Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,And joy desert the blooming year.

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye25

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 tideNo sedge-crown’d sisters now attend,30Now waft me from the green hill’s side,Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide

No sedge-crown’d sisters now attend,30

Now waft me from the green hill’s side,

Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

65And see, the fairy valleys fade;Dun night has veil’d the solemn view!Yet once again, dear parted shade,35Meek Nature’s Child, again adieu!

And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun night has veil’d the solemn view!

Yet once again, dear parted shade,35

Meek Nature’s Child, again adieu!

The genial meads,[39]assign’d to blessThy life, shall mourn thy early doom;Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,With simple hands, thy rural tomb.40

The genial meads,[39]assign’d to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;

Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,

With simple hands, thy rural tomb.40

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clayShall melt the musing Briton’s eyes:O! vales and wild woods, shall he say,In yonder grave your Druid lies!

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!

66ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND;CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY; INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME.

I.Home, thou return’st from Thames, whose Naiads longHave seen thee lingering with a fond delay,’Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.[40]Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth[41]5Whom, long endear’d, thou leavest by Levant’s side;Together let us wish him lasting truth,And joy untainted with his destined bride.Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boastMy short-lived bliss, forget my social name;10But think, far off, how, on the southern coast,I met thy friendship with an equal flame!67Fresh to that soil thou turn’st, where every valeShall prompt the poet, and his song demand:To thee thy copious subjects ne’er shall fail;15Thou need’st but take thy pencil to thy hand,And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.II.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,20Beneath 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.25There, every herd, by sad experience, knowsHow, 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 the untutor’d swain:30Nor 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.3568III.E’en yet preserved, how often mayst 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,40Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,With uncouth lyres, in many-colour’d vest,Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown’d:Whether thou bidst the well taught hind relateWhether thou bidst the well taught hind repeatThe choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave,45When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,And strew’d with choicest herbs his scented grave!Or whether, sitting in the shepherd’s shiel,[42]Thou hear’st some sounding tale of war’s alarms;When at the bugle’s call, with fire and steel,50The sturdy clans pour’d forth their bony swarms,The sturdy clans pour’d forth their brawny swarms,And hostile brothers met, to prove each other’s arms.69IV.’Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,In Sky’s lone isle, the gifted wizard seer,Lodged in the wintry cave with Fate’s fell spear,55Or in the gloom of Uist’s dark forest dwells:Or in the depth of Uist’s dark forest dwells:How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,With their own visions oft afflicted droop,With their own visions oft astonish’d droop,When, o’er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.60Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,Their destined glance some fated youth descry,Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.For them the viewless forms of air obey;65Their bidding mark, and at their beck repair:Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair:They know what spirit brews the stormful day,And heartless, oft like moody madness, stareTo see the phantom train their secret work prepare.V.To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,70Oft have they 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!70As Boreas threw his young Aurora[43]forth,In the first year of the first George’s reign,75And battles raged 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 raved! divining, through their second sight,[44]80Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown’d!Illustrious William![45]Britain’s guardian name!One William saved us from a tyrant’s stroke;He, for a sceptre, gain’d heroic fame,But thou, more glorious, Slavery’s chain hast broke,85To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom’s yoke!VI.These, too, thou’lt sing! for well thy magic museCan to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar;Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne’er lose;9071Let not dank Will[46]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,95His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight,Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;For watchful, lurking, ’mid the unrustling reed,At those sad hours the wily monster lies;At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,100And 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.VII.Ah, luckless swain, o’er all unblest, indeed!Whom late bewilder’d in the dank, dark fen,105Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then!To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed:On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood,Shall never look with pity’s kind concern,But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood110O’er its drowned bank, forbidding all return!O’er its drown’d banks, forbidding all return!72Or, 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.115Meantime 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!120VIII.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 the cottage gate!His babes shall linger at the unclosing gate!Ah, ne’er shall he return! Alone, if night125Her travel’d limbs in broken slumbers steep,With dropping willows drest, his mournful spriteWith drooping willows drest, his mournful spriteShall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,Shall seem to press her cold and shuddering cheek,Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,130And with his blue swoln face before her stand,And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak:73Proceed, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,“Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;Nor e’er of me one hapless thought renew,Nor e’er of me one helpless thought renew,135While I lie weltering on the osier’d shore,Drown’d by the Kelpie’s[47]wrath, nor e’er shall aid thee more!”IX.Unbounded is thy range; with varied stileUnbounded is thy range; with varied skillThy muse may, like those feathery tribes which springFrom their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing140Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,To that hoar pile[48]which still its ruins shows:In whose small vaults a pigmy folk is found,Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,And culls them, wondering, from the hallow’d ground!145Or thither,[49]where, beneath the showery west,The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid;74Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,No slaves revere them, and no wars invade:Yet frequent now, at midnight’s solemn hour,150The 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.X.But, oh, o’er all, forget not Kilda’s race,155On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting 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,160Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,And all their prospect but the wintry main.With sparing temperance, at the needful time,They drain the sainted spring; or, hunger-prest,They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest,Along the Atlantic rock, undreading climb,165And of its eggs despoil the solan’s[50]nest.75Thus, blest in primal innocence, they liveSufficed, and happy with that frugal fareWhich tasteful toil and hourly danger give.Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;170Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!XI.Nor need’st thou blush that such false themes engageThy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest;For not alone they touch the village breast,But fill’d, in elder time, the historic page.175There, Shakespeare’s self, with every garland crown’d,Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,In musing hour; his wayward sisters found,And with their terrors drest the magic scene.From them he sung, when, ’mid his bold design,180Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!The shadowy kings of Banquo’s fated lineThrough the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass’d.Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told,Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;185Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold,The native legends of thy land rehearse;To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.XII.In scenes like these, which, daring to departFrom sober truth, are still to nature true,19076And call forth fresh delight to Fancy’s view,The heroic muse employ’d her Tasso’s art!How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s side,Like him I stalk’d, and all his passions felt;When charm’d by Ismen, through the forest wide,Bark’d in each plant a talking spirit dwelt!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,195And the wild blast upheaved the vanish’d sword!How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mindBelieved the magic wonders which he sung!200Hence, sure to charm, his early numbers flow,Though strong, yet sweet–––Though faithful, sweet; though strong, of simple kind.Hence, with each theme, he bids the bosom glow,While his warm lays an easy passage find,Pour’d through each inmost nerve, and lull the harmonious ear.Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear,Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,And fills the impassion’d heart, and wins the harmonious ear!20577XIII.All hail, ye scenes that o’er my soul prevail!Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,Are by smooth Annan[51]fill’d or pastoral Tay,[51]Or Don’s[51]romantic springs at distance hail!The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread210Your lowly glens, 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[52]sat in Drummond’s classic shade;215Or crop from Tiviot’s dale each––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 boreThe cordial youth, on Lothian’s plains,[53]attend!––Where’er he dwell, on hill, or lowly muir,Where’er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor,220To him I lose, your kind protection lend,And, touch’d with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

Home, thou return’st from Thames, whose Naiads longHave seen thee lingering with a fond delay,’Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.[40]Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth[41]5Whom, long endear’d, thou leavest by Levant’s side;Together let us wish him lasting truth,And joy untainted with his destined bride.Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boastMy short-lived bliss, forget my social name;10But think, far off, how, on the southern coast,I met thy friendship with an equal flame!67Fresh to that soil thou turn’st, where every valeShall prompt the poet, and his song demand:To thee thy copious subjects ne’er shall fail;15Thou need’st but take thy pencil to thy hand,And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.

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.[40]

Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth[41]5

Whom, long endear’d, thou leavest by Levant’s side;

Together let us wish him lasting truth,

And joy untainted with his destined bride.

Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast

My short-lived bliss, forget my social name;10

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;15

Thou need’st but take thy pencil to thy hand,

And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.

II.

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,20Beneath 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.25There, every herd, by sad experience, knowsHow, 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 the untutor’d swain:30Nor 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.35

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,20

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.25

There, every herd, by sad experience, knows

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 the untutor’d swain:30

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.35

68III.

III.

E’en yet preserved, how often mayst 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,40Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,With uncouth lyres, in many-colour’d vest,Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown’d:Whether thou bidst the well taught hind relateWhether thou bidst the well taught hind repeatThe choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave,45When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,And strew’d with choicest herbs his scented grave!Or whether, sitting in the shepherd’s shiel,[42]Thou hear’st some sounding tale of war’s alarms;When at the bugle’s call, with fire and steel,50The sturdy clans pour’d forth their bony swarms,The sturdy clans pour’d forth their brawny swarms,And hostile brothers met, to prove each other’s arms.

E’en yet preserved, how often mayst 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,40

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,

With uncouth lyres, in many-colour’d vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown’d:

Whether thou bidst the well taught hind relate

Whether thou bidst the well taught hind repeat

The choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave,45

When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,

And strew’d with choicest herbs his scented grave!

Or whether, sitting in the shepherd’s shiel,[42]

Thou hear’st some sounding tale of war’s alarms;

When at the bugle’s call, with fire and steel,50

The sturdy clans pour’d forth their bony swarms,

The sturdy clans pour’d forth their brawny swarms,

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

69IV.

IV.

’Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,In Sky’s lone isle, the gifted wizard seer,Lodged in the wintry cave with Fate’s fell spear,55Or in the gloom of Uist’s dark forest dwells:Or in the depth of Uist’s dark forest dwells:How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,With their own visions oft afflicted droop,With their own visions oft astonish’d droop,When, o’er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.60Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,Their destined glance some fated youth descry,Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.For them the viewless forms of air obey;65Their bidding mark, and at their beck repair:Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair:They know what spirit brews the stormful day,And heartless, oft like moody madness, stareTo see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

’Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,

In Sky’s lone isle, the gifted wizard seer,

Lodged in the wintry cave with Fate’s fell spear,55

Or in the gloom of Uist’s dark forest dwells:

Or in the depth of Uist’s dark forest dwells:

How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,

With their own visions oft afflicted droop,

With their own visions oft astonish’d droop,

When, o’er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,

They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.60

Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,

Their destined glance some fated youth descry,

Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,

And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.

For them the viewless forms of air obey;65

Their bidding mark, and at their beck repair:

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,70Oft have they 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!70As Boreas threw his young Aurora[43]forth,In the first year of the first George’s reign,75And battles raged 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 raved! divining, through their second sight,[44]80Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown’d!Illustrious William![45]Britain’s guardian name!One William saved us from a tyrant’s stroke;He, for a sceptre, gain’d heroic fame,But thou, more glorious, Slavery’s chain hast broke,85To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom’s yoke!

To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,70

Oft have they 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[43]forth,

In the first year of the first George’s reign,75

And battles raged 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 raved! divining, through their second sight,[44]80

Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown’d!

Illustrious William![45]Britain’s guardian name!

One William saved us from a tyrant’s stroke;

He, for a sceptre, gain’d heroic fame,

But thou, more glorious, Slavery’s chain hast broke,85

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

VI.

These, too, thou’lt sing! for well thy magic museCan to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar;Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne’er lose;9071Let not dank Will[46]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,95His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight,Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;For watchful, lurking, ’mid the unrustling reed,At those sad hours the wily monster lies;At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,100And 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.

These, too, thou’lt sing! for well thy magic muse

Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar;

Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!

Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne’er lose;90

Let not dank Will[46]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,95

His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight,

Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,

Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;

For watchful, lurking, ’mid the unrustling reed,

At those sad hours the wily monster lies;

At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,100

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.

VII.

Ah, luckless swain, o’er all unblest, indeed!Whom late bewilder’d in the dank, dark fen,105Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then!To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed:On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood,Shall never look with pity’s kind concern,But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood110O’er its drowned bank, forbidding all return!O’er its drown’d banks, forbidding all return!72Or, 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.115Meantime 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!120

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

Whom late bewilder’d in the dank, dark fen,105

Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then!

To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed:

On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood,

Shall never look with pity’s kind concern,

But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood110

O’er its drowned bank, forbidding all return!

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.115

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!120

VIII.

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 the cottage gate!His babes shall linger at the unclosing gate!Ah, ne’er shall he return! Alone, if night125Her travel’d limbs in broken slumbers steep,With dropping willows drest, his mournful spriteWith drooping willows drest, his mournful spriteShall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,Shall seem to press her cold and shuddering cheek,Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,130And with his blue swoln face before her stand,And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak:73Proceed, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,“Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;Nor e’er of me one hapless thought renew,Nor e’er of me one helpless thought renew,135While I lie weltering on the osier’d shore,Drown’d by the Kelpie’s[47]wrath, nor e’er shall aid thee more!”

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 the cottage gate!

His babes shall linger at the unclosing gate!

Ah, ne’er shall he return! Alone, if night125

Her travel’d limbs in broken slumbers steep,

With dropping willows drest, his mournful sprite

With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite

Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:

Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,

Shall seem to press her cold and shuddering cheek,

Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,130

And with his blue swoln face before her stand,

And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak:

Proceed, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,

“Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,

At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;

Nor e’er of me one hapless thought renew,

Nor e’er of me one helpless thought renew,135

While I lie weltering on the osier’d shore,

Drown’d by the Kelpie’s[47]wrath, nor e’er shall aid thee more!”

IX.

Unbounded is thy range; with varied stileUnbounded is thy range; with varied skillThy muse may, like those feathery tribes which springFrom their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing140Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,To that hoar pile[48]which still its ruins shows:In whose small vaults a pigmy folk is found,Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,And culls them, wondering, from the hallow’d ground!145Or thither,[49]where, beneath the showery west,The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid;74Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,No slaves revere them, and no wars invade:Yet frequent now, at midnight’s solemn hour,150The 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.

Unbounded is thy range; with varied stile

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill

Thy muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing140

Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,

To that hoar pile[48]which still its ruins shows:

In whose small vaults a pigmy folk is found,

Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,

And culls them, wondering, from the hallow’d ground!145

Or thither,[49]where, beneath the showery 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’s solemn hour,150

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,155On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting 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,160Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,And all their prospect but the wintry main.With sparing temperance, at the needful time,They drain the sainted spring; or, hunger-prest,They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest,Along the Atlantic rock, undreading climb,165And of its eggs despoil the solan’s[50]nest.75Thus, blest in primal innocence, they liveSufficed, and happy with that frugal fareWhich tasteful toil and hourly danger give.Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;170Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

But, oh, o’er all, forget not Kilda’s race,155

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting 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,160

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 sainted spring; or, hunger-prest,

They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest,

Along the Atlantic rock, undreading climb,165

And of its eggs despoil the solan’s[50]nest.

Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live

Sufficed, and happy with that frugal fare

Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.

Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;170

Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI.

Nor need’st thou blush that such false themes engageThy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest;For not alone they touch the village breast,But fill’d, in elder time, the historic page.175There, Shakespeare’s self, with every garland crown’d,Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,In musing hour; his wayward sisters found,And with their terrors drest the magic scene.From them he sung, when, ’mid his bold design,180Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!The shadowy kings of Banquo’s fated lineThrough the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass’d.Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told,Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;185Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold,The native legends of thy land rehearse;To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.

Nor need’st thou blush that such false themes engage

Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest;

For not alone they touch the village breast,

But fill’d, in elder time, the historic page.175

There, Shakespeare’s self, with every garland crown’d,

Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,

In musing hour; his wayward sisters found,

And with their terrors drest the magic scene.

From them he sung, when, ’mid his bold design,180

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;185

Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold,

The native legends of thy land rehearse;

To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.

XII.

In scenes like these, which, daring to departFrom sober truth, are still to nature true,19076And call forth fresh delight to Fancy’s view,The heroic muse employ’d her Tasso’s art!How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s side,Like him I stalk’d, and all his passions felt;When charm’d by Ismen, through the forest wide,Bark’d in each plant a talking spirit dwelt!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,195And the wild blast upheaved the vanish’d sword!How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mindBelieved the magic wonders which he sung!200Hence, sure to charm, his early numbers flow,Though strong, yet sweet–––Though faithful, sweet; though strong, of simple kind.Hence, with each theme, he bids the bosom glow,While his warm lays an easy passage find,Pour’d through each inmost nerve, and lull the harmonious ear.Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear,Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,And fills the impassion’d heart, and wins the harmonious ear!205

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart

From sober truth, are still to nature true,190

And call forth fresh delight to Fancy’s view,

The heroic muse employ’d her Tasso’s art!

How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s side,Like him I stalk’d, and all his passions felt;When charm’d by Ismen, through the forest wide,Bark’d in each plant a talking spirit dwelt!

How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s side,

Like him I stalk’d, and all his passions felt;

When charm’d by Ismen, through the forest wide,

Bark’d in each plant a talking spirit dwelt!

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,195

And the wild blast upheaved the vanish’d sword!

How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,

To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!

Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind

Believed the magic wonders which he sung!200

Hence, sure to charm, his early numbers flow,Though strong, yet sweet–––Though faithful, sweet; though strong, of simple kind.Hence, with each theme, he bids the bosom glow,While his warm lays an easy passage find,Pour’d through each inmost nerve, and lull the harmonious ear.

Hence, sure to charm, his early numbers flow,

Though strong, yet sweet–––

Though faithful, sweet; though strong, of simple kind.

Hence, with each theme, he bids the bosom glow,

While his warm lays an easy passage find,

Pour’d through each inmost nerve, and lull the harmonious ear.

Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!

Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!

Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear,

Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,

And fills the impassion’d heart, and wins the harmonious ear!205

77XIII.

XIII.

All hail, ye scenes that o’er my soul prevail!Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,Are by smooth Annan[51]fill’d or pastoral Tay,[51]Or Don’s[51]romantic springs at distance hail!The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread210Your lowly glens, 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[52]sat in Drummond’s classic shade;215Or crop from Tiviot’s dale each––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 boreThe cordial youth, on Lothian’s plains,[53]attend!––Where’er he dwell, on hill, or lowly muir,Where’er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor,220To him I lose, your kind protection lend,And, touch’d with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

All hail, ye scenes that o’er my soul prevail!

Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,

Are by smooth Annan[51]fill’d or pastoral Tay,[51]

Or Don’s[51]romantic springs at distance hail!

The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread210

Your lowly glens, 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[52]sat in Drummond’s classic shade;215

Or crop from Tiviot’s dale each––

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,[53]attend!––

Where’er he dwell, on hill, or lowly muir,

Where’er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor,220

To him I lose, your kind protection lend,

And, touch’d with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

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