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ODE ON SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS

Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth

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;
'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet,
Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet 20
Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill.
There each trim lass that skims the milky store
To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows
How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly;
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,

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Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel,

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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,

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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.

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Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath:
Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,
He glows, to draw you downward to your death,
In his bewitch'd, low, marshy willow brake!] |
What tho' far off, from some dark dell espied, 95
His glimm'ring mazes cheer th' excursive sight,
Yet turn, ye wand'rers, turn your steps aside,

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.

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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:

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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
From sober truth, are still to nature true, 190
And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,
Th' heroic muse employ'd her Tasso's art!
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd;
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd
sword!

How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind,
To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,
Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind

Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence at each sound imagination glows;
[The MS. lacks a line here.]

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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,

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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
With young Endymion stays;
And now to Hesper it is given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.
Propitious send thy golden ray,

Thou purest light above!
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm;
But lead where music's healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.

To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns, Olympia's haunts, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.

Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came, while her enchanting Muse

The radiant moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd
She fled the solemn shade.

But hark! I hear her liquid tone!
Now Hesper guide my feet!
Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.

See the green space: on either hand
Enlarged it spreads around:

See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o'er half the level mead,
Enclosed in woods profound.

Hark! how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:

How sweetly down the void they float!

ΙΟ

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The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went
round.

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;

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THE DESERTED VILLAGE

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Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 81
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs — and God has given my share
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return and die at home at last.

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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

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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.

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