Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue, Go, Yarrow flower, to Yarrow maid, Come, Yarrow maid, from Yarrow field, What pleasure can the desart yield? Come to my breast, O all excelling, Is there on earth so kind a dwelling? Come, my dear maid, thou prettiest maid, That ever smiled in Yarrow shade; Come, sister of the dewy morning, With Alves' blush the dance adorning. Come, lovely maid, love calls thee here, Linger no more thy fleeting year, Vainly shining, idly blooming, Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue, No hand to press, no eye to view; Come, Yarrow maid, with Yarrow rose, XXVI. ODE TO PITY. -COLLINS. O THOU, the friend of man assigned, With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe: When first distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his destined 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 tenderest blue, And eyes of dewy light! But wherefore need I wander wide To old Ilissus' distant side, Deserted stream, and mute? Wild * Arun too has heard thy strains, And echo, 'midst my native plains, There first the wren thy myrtles shed To him thy cell was shown; And while he sung the female heart, With youth's soft notes unspoiled by art, Thy turtles mixed their own. Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid, Even 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. * A river in Sussex. There picture's toil shall well relate, How chance, or hard involving fate, O'er mortal bliss prevail : The buskin'd muse shall near her stand, And sighing prompt her tender hand, With each disastrous tale. There let me oft, retired by day, Allowed with thee to dwell: There waste the mournful lamp of night, Till, virgin, thou again delight To hear a British shell! |