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But, o, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters and their chaste-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen
Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leap'd up, and siez'd his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd,
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
While, as his fying fingers kiss'd the strings,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
ODE TO FEAR.
With all its shadowy shapes, is shewn; Who seest, appall’d, the unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veil 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 fly. For lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose linibs of giant mould 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 sleep: And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind: And those, the fiends, who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks, preside; Whilst 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,
EPODE. In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the bard who first invok'd thy name,
Disdain'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 steel. 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! Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous queen
Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent 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:
Or, in some hollow'd seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries, in tempests brought? Dark power,
with shudd'ring meek submitted thought. Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awakening bards have told:
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
O thou whose spirit most possest
ODE TO EVENING. IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear, Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ;
With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return !
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with
sedge, And sheds with fresh'ning dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That, from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods, 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. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy ling'ring light;
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes ;
Thy gentlest influence own,