SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing Goddess, stood!
There oft the painted natives' feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward-rolls, to find its place,
Whether the fiery-tressy Dane,

Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd sky,
Amidst the light pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn, delighted and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
E'en now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Græcia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the Patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And grav'd with some prophetic rage
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain.
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balm
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore:
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair;
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around-
O how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west!

§ 153. Ode to a Lady on the Death of Colonel Charles Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy Written in May, 1745. COLLINS.

WHILE lost to all his former mirth, Britannia's Genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day;

While stain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May;

The thoughts which musing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend :
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's descending wave,
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aërial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honor's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest;
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wond'ring chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sod which wraps the dead
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor❜d:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And bleeding at her sacred feet
Present the sated sword.

If, weak to soothe so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart
To dry thy constant tear;
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild war insulting near:

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep:
E'en humble Harting's cottage vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the cheerful task :
In pageant quaint, in motley mask;
Behold, before her musing eyes,
The countless manners round her rise,
While, ever varying as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-rob'd maids combine,
And those the laughing satyrs join!
But who is he whom now she views,
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the Passions nurs'd, I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humor, thou whose name is known
To Britain's favor'd isle alone,
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy side.
By old Miletus who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades;

By him whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,

In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore;
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid

By virtues in her sire betray'd:

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those off-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree
To rove thy sceneful world with thee!

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, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muses' painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refiu'd: Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound: And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each, for Madness rul'd the hour,

Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
-With woeful measures wan Despair,

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
"Twas sad by hits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail !
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every
close,

And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but with a frown, Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat : And though sometimes, each dreary pause be

tween,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien ; While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

+ Cervantes.

died in Paris in the year 1746.

But, O how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed

queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best: They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,.
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess, why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that lov'd Athenian bow'r,
You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r;
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page-
Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound—
O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state,
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

$158. The Pauper's Funeral. CRABBE.
Now once again the gloomy scene explore,
Less gloomy now, the bitter hour is o'er;
The man of many sorrows sighs no more.
Up yonder hill behold how sadly slow
The bier moves winding from the vale below!
There lies the happy dead, from trouble free,
And the glad parish pays the frugal fee.

No more, O death! thy victim starts to hear Church-wardens stern, or kingly overseer: No more the farmer claims his humble bow; Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!

Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid, and devoutly dumb: The village children now their games suspend, To see the bier that bears their ancient friend; For he was one in all their idle sport, And like a monarch rul'd their little court; The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball, The bat, the wicket, were his labours all; Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relics of the parish poor: Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care, Defers his duty till the day of prayer, And waiting long, the crowd retire distrest, To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest *. § 159. The Village Foundling. CRABBE.

To name an infant met our village sires,
Assembled all, as such event requires;
Frequent and full the rural sages sate,
And speakers many urg'd the long debate.
Some hardened knaves who rov'd the country
round

Had left a babe within the parish-bound.
First of the fact they question'd-Was it true
The child was brought?-What then remain'd
to do?

Was't dead, or living?-this was fairly prov'd; 'Twas pinched-it roared, and every doubt removed.

Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call Was long a question, and it pass'd them all; For he who lent a name to babe unknown, Censorious men might take it for his own. They look'd about, they ask'd the name of all, And not one Richard answer'd to the call; Next they inquir'd the day when, passing by, Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry: This known, how food and raiment they might give

Was next debated, for the rogue would live.
At last with all their words and work content,
Back to their homes the prudent vestry went,
And Richard Monday to the work-house sent.
There he was pinch'd, and pitied, thump'd and
fed,

And duly took his beatings and his bread;
Patient in all control, in all abuse,
He found contempt and kicking have their use.
Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow,
A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;
His pliant soul gave way to all things base,
He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace:
It seem'd, so well his passions he suppress'd,
No feeling stirr'd his ever torpid breast:

unknown.

Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat;
He was a foot-stool for the beggar's feet;
His were the legs that run at all commands,
They used on all occasions Richard's hands:
His very soul was not his own; he stole
As others order'd, and without a dole :
In all disputes, on either part he lied,
And freely pledg'd his oath on either side:
In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest,
In all detections Richard first confess'd:

well,

He rose in favor, when in fame he fell :
Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,
And all despis'd and fed the pliant boy.
At length 'tis time he should abroad be sent,
Was whispered near him-and abroad he went;
One morn they called him-Richard answered

He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide,
How best for Richard Monday to provide.
Steel through opposing plate the magnet draws,
And steely atoms culls from dust and straws;
And thus our hero, to his int'rest true,
Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew.
But still more surely round the world to go,
This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe.
Long lost to us at last our man we trace,
Sir Richard Monday died at Monday Place;
His lady's worth, his daughter's we peruse,
And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews:
He gave reforming charities a sum, [dumb;
And bought the blessings of the blind and
Bequeath'd to missions money from the stocks,
And Bibles issued from his private box:
But to his na.ive place severely just,
He left a pittance bound in rigid trust;
Two paltry pounds on every quarter's day,
At church produc'd for forty loaves should pay,
A stinted gift that to the parish shows,
He kept in mind their bounty and their blows.

$160. The Village Infidel.

CRABBE.

His a lone house by dead man's dyke way stood,

And his a nightly haunt in lonely wood:
Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast,
That he believ'd in neither God nor ghost;
That when the sod upon the sinner press'd,
He, like the saint, had everlasting rest;
That never priest believ'd his doctrines true,
But would, for profit, own himself a Jew,
Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen
That fools alone on future worlds rely, [do;
And all who die for faith, deserve to die.
These maxims, part, th' attorney's clerk pro-
fess'd;

His own transcendent genius found the rest.

"Twas his at cards each novice to trepan,
And call the wants of rogues the rights of man;
Wild as the winds he let his offspring rove,
And deem'd the marriage bond the bane of love.
What age and sickness for a man so bold
Had done we know not; none beheld him old:
By night as business urg'd, he sought the wood,
The ditch was deep, the rain had caus'd a flood,
The foot-bridge fail'd, he plung'd beneath the
deep,

And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep.

§ 161. Funeral of the Lady of the Manor.

CRABBE.

trace,

And one so piteous govern'd in her place?

Lo! now, what dismal sons of darkness come To bear this daughter of indulgence home, Tragedians all, and well arrang'd in black! Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack; Who cause no tear, but gloomily pass by, And shake the sables in the wearied eye, That turns disgusted from the pompous scene, Proud without grandeur, with profession mean. The tear for kindness past affection owes, For worth deceas'd the sigh from reason flows; E'en well-feign'd passions for our sorrows call, And real tears for mimic miseries fall;