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WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
ODE, TO A LADY,
ON THE DEATH OF COL. CHARLES ROSS, IN THE
ACTION AT FONTENOY.
Written May, 1745.
And mourns the fatal day :
The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
Your faithful hours attend :
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
Where'er the youth is laid :
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, fall'n to save his injur'd land, Imperial Honour's aweful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Shall leave their sainted rest :
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laureld field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
And wish th' avenging fight.
But, lo! where, sunk in deep despair,
Impatient Freedom lies !
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,
To dry thy constant tear :
Wild war insulting near :
Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
Her gentlest promise keep :
ODE TO EVENING.
Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Like thy own solemn springs,
O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun
With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding-star arising shows
The fragrant hours, and elves
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with
The pensive pleasures sweet
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Whose walls more aweful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
Thy dewy fingers draw
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
While Summer loves to sport
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes :
Thy gentlest influence own,