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Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
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
Be mine to read the visions old
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
O thou whose spirit most possest
ODE TO EVENING. TF 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,
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Sung by Gaiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed
to be dead. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; Or, 'midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed; Belov'd, till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead,
In Imitation of Spenser.
Auditæ voces, vagitus & ingens,
A H me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, A To think how modest worth Deglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blast adorn. Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise, Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprice: Lend me thy clarion, Goddess ! let me try To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies, Such as I oft have chaunced to espy Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity, In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we school-mistress name Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame, And oft times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. Which Learning near her little dome did stowe, Whillow a twig of small regard to see, Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassal's mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blow, But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low, And as they look'd, they found their borror grew, And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.