XXXV Here freedom reign'd, without the least alloy; XXXVI The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale; Pour'd forth at large the sweetly tortured heart, Or, looking tender passion, swell'd the gale, And taught charm'd Echo to resound their smart ; While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart. XXXVII Those pleased the most where, by a cunning hand Depainted, was the patriarchal age, What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. Toil was not then: of nothing took they heed, But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage, And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: Bless'd sons of Nature they! true golden age indeed! XXXVIII Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, Bade the gay bloom of vernal landskips rise, Or autumn's varied shades embrown the walls: Now the black tempest strikes the astonish'd eyes; Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue, And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; Whate'er Lorraine light-touch'd with softening hue, Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew. XXXIX Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined, Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease; Aërial music in the warbling wind, At distance rising oft, by small degrees Nearer and nearer came; till o'er the trees It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs As did, alas! with soft perdition please: Entangled deep in its enchanting snares, The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. XL A certain music, never known before, Here soothed the pensive melancholy mind, Full easily obtain'd. Behoves no more But sidelong to the gently waving wind To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined, From which, with airy flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight, Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hight. XLI Ah me! what hand can touch the strings so fine ? Who up the lofty diapason roll Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, Then let them down again into the soul? Now rising love they fann'd; now pleasing dole They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart; As when seraphic hands a hymn impart : XLII Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, In mighty Bagdad, populous and great, Held their bright court, where was of ladies store; And verse, love, music, still the garland wore : When Sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there, Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muse's lore; Composing music bade his dreams be fair, And music lent new gladness to the morning air. XLIII Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began (So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell, As heaven and earth they would together mell: At doors and windows threatening seem'd to call The demons of the tempest, growling fell; Yet the least entrance found they none at all; Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy ball. XLIV And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, So fleece with clouds, the pure ethereal space; XLV No, fair illusions! artful phantoms, no! My muse will not attempt your fairy land: She has no colours that like you can glow; To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprites, Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, Pour'd all the Arabian heaven upon our nights, And bless'd them oft besides with more refined delights. XLVI They were, in sooth, a most enchanting train, E'en feigning virtue; skilful to unite With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain. But for those fiends whom blood and broils delight, On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep; They, till due time should serve, were bid far hence to keep. COLLINS. 1720-1756. PRINCIPAL WORKS:- -Oriental Eclogues, containing some fine descriptions, 1743.-Odes (in which species of poetry, with Gray, he occupies one of the highest places in English literature), The Passions, On the Poetical Character, To Fear, To Pity, To Evening, To Liberty, and On the Death of Thomson, 1746. The Ode to the Passions in particular, though not equal to Gray's Progress of Poesy, has been ranked amongst the best efforts of the lyric muse. Like so many others of his poetic brethren, Collins experienced both the inconveniences of recklessness and poverty, and the indifference of the public. His friendship and admiration for Thomson forms the most interesting feature in his life. 'A cloud of obscurity,' says Campbell, 'sometimes rests on his highest conceptions, arising from the fineness of his associations, and the daring sweep of his allusions; but the shadow is transitory, and interferes very little with the light of his imagery, or the warmth of his feeling. The absence of even this speck of mysticism from his Ode on the Passions is perhaps the happy circumstance that secured its unbounded popularity. His genius loved to breathe rather in the præternatural and ideal element of poetry than in the atmosphere of imitation which lies closest to real life; his notions of poetical excellence, whatever vows he might address to the manners, were still tending to the vast, the undefinable, and the abstract. Certainly, however, he carried. sensibility and tenderness into the highest regions of abstracted thought: his enthusiasm spreads a glow even amongst "the shadowy tribes of mind;" and his allegory is as sensible to the heart as it is visible to the fancy.' Next to his masterpiece, his Ode to Fear seems to deserve the greatest admiration. THE PASSIONS. 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; |