Yet he, the Bard 1 who first invoked thy name, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. But who is he,2 whom later garlands grace, Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous queen 3 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; Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine! 30 40 ANTISTROPHE. Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? 'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought? Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought, Be mine, to read the visions old, Which thy awakening bards have told : And, lest thou meet my blasted view, Hold each strange tale devoutly true; ''Bard:' Eschylus. —'Who is he,' &c.: Sophocles. 'Incestuous Queen' Jocasta. 36 Ne'er be I found, by thee o'erawed, Teach me but once like him to feel: His wreath my cypress meed decree, And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee! ODE TO SIMPLICITY. 0 THOU by Nature taught, To breathe her genuine thought, In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, and Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! 2 Thou, who with hermit heart Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall: But comest a decent maid, In Attic robe array'd, O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call! On Hybla's thymy shore; By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear; By her1 whose love-lorn woe, In evening musings slow, Soothed sweetly sad Electra's Poet's2 ear: 5 Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat; On whose enamell'd side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allured thy future feet. O sister meek of Truth, To my admiring youth, Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! Though beauty cull'd the wreath, Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. 6 While Rome could none esteem, But virtue's patriot theme, You loved her hills, and led her laureate band: To one distinguish'd throne; And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. The Passions own thy power, Love, only love, her forceless numbers mean : Her:' the nightingale.-2 Sad Electra's Poet:' borrowed from Milton's Eighth Sonnet. 8 For thou hast left her shrine; Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius bless To some divine excess, Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole ; What each, what all supply, May court, may charm our eye; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul ! To aid some mighty task, I only seek to find thy temperate vale : To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale. ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER. As once, if not with light regard, Unrivall'd fair:' Florimel. See Spenser, Leg. 4th. 10 Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame, Happier hopeless fair, if never Her baffled hand with vain endeavour And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her flame. The band, as fairy legends say, Was wove on that creating day, When He, who call'd with thought to birth Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, And dress'd with springs, and forests tall, And placed her on his sapphire throne ; 11 20 30 40 |