And, cruel gods,' and cruel stars,' she cried: Nor did the shepherds, through the woodlands wide, On that sad day, or to the pensive brook, Or silent river, drive their thirsty flocks: Nor did the wild goat browse the shrubby rocks: And Philomel her custom'd oak forsook: And every lily droop'd its silver head. Sad sympathy! yet sure his rightful meed, sang, All as his hands an ivy chaplet wove. Oh! make it worthy of the sacred Bard; song; Whether with angel troops, the stars among, IMITATION. Here end we, Goddess! &c.] Hæc sat erit, Divæ, vestrum cecinisse poetam, Gallo, cujus amor, &c. VIRG. Ecl. 10. Thus the fond swain his Doric oate essay'd, Manhood's prime honours rising on his cheek: Trembling he strove to court the tuneful maid With strippling arts, and dalliance all too weak, Unseen, unheard, beneath a hawthorn shade. But now dun clouds the welkin 'gan to streak; And now down dropp'd the larks, and ceased their strain: They ceased, and with them ceased the shepherd swain. ODES. ODE I. TO MEMORY. MOTHER of wisdom'! thou, whose sway The throng'd ideal hosts obey; Who bidd'st their ranks now vanish, now appear, Flame in the van, or darken in the rear; Accept this votive verse. Thy reign. Nor place can fix nor power restrain. All, all is thine. For thee, the ear and eye Rove through the realms of grace and harmony: The senses thee spontaneous serve, That wake, and thrill through every nerve. Else vainly soft, loved Philomel! would flow The soothing sadness of thy warbled woe: Else vainly sweet yon woodbine shade See modest Nature bring her simple stores, According to a fragment of Afranius, who makes Experience and Memory the parents of Wisdom. Usus me genuit, Mater peperit Memoria This passage is preserved by Aulus Gellius, lib. xiii. cap. 8. While every flower in Fancy's clime, Each gem of old heroic Time, Cull'd by the hand of the industrious Muse, Around thy shrine their blended beams diffuse. Hail, Memory! hail. Behold, I lead To that high shrine the sacred maid: She comes, and lo, thy realms expand: Full in the midst, and o'er thy numerous train Through silver clouds and azure skies; While, near the secret mossgrown cave, Sweet Echo, rising from her rocky bed, Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say, How, when'depress'd by age, beset with wrongs :' When darkness, brooding on thy sight, Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse? Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth Caught from the stores of ancient truth: Hence all thy classic wanderings could explore, When rapture led thee to the Latian shore; Each scene, that Tiber's bank supplied; Each grace, that play'd on Arno's side; The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly; The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky; Were still thy own: thy ample mind Each charm received, retain'd, combined. And thence the nightly visitant,' that came To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame, Recall'd the long-lost beams of grace, That whilom shot from Nature's face, When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast Spread with his own right hand perfection's gorgeous vest. ODE II. TO A WATER-NYMPH. YE green hair'd Nymphs, whom Pan's de crees Have given to guard this solemn wood', To speed the shooting scions into trees, And call the roseate blossom from the bud, 1 A seat near ** finely situated, with a great command of water; but disposed in a very false taste. |