ODE ON SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. Whom, long-endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant'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-liv'd 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, whose ev'ry vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; 15 Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe who own thy genial land. II There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; 25 Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel, 275 And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey, 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. 69 V [To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,1 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 forth, 76 In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles rag'd 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 rav'd, divining, thro' their second sight, 80 Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd! Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd 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! 1 This Ode was first published after the death of Collins. The bracketed passages are missing in the original and are here supplied from an unauthorized edition, London, 1788. Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unrustling reed, 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. 165 Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, 161 And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temp'rance, at the needful time, They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-prest, Along th' Altantic rock undreading climb, And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus blest in primal innocence they live, Suffic'd and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. 169 Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! ΧΙ Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest: And with their terrors drest the magic scene. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant past. Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answ'ring bosom pierce; Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; 187 To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy pow'rful verse. XII In scenes like these, which, daring to depart How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung! 200 277 Meantime, ye Pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend, Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir, 220 To him I lose your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend! MARK AKENSIDE (1721-1770) THE NIGHTINGALE To-night retired, the queen of heaven Thou purest light above! To them, by many a grateful song Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs The radiant moon above us held: But hark! I hear her liquid tone! See the green space: on either hand See, in the midst she takes her stand, Hark! how through many a melting note How sweetly down the void they float! ΙΟ 20 30 15 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 20 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 85 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 91 95 100 105 O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close ΙΙΟ 279 165 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 178 |