ODE IX.

TO AN ÆOLUS'S HARP'

SENT TO MISS SHEPHEARD.

YES, magic Lyre! now all complete Thy slender frame responsive rings; While kindred notes, with undulation sweet, Accordant wake from all thy vocal strings. Go then to her, whose soft request

Bad my bless'd hands thy form prepare: Ah, go, and sweetly sooth her tender breast With many a warble wild and artless air.

For know, full oft, while o'er the mead

Bright June extends her fragrant reign,
The slumbering fair shall place thee near her head,
To court the gales that cool the sultry plain.

Then shall the sylphs, and sylphids bright,
Mild genii all, to whose high care

Her virgin charms are given, in circling flight
Skim sportive round thee in the fields of air.

Some, fluttering through thy trembling strings,
Shall catch the rich melodious spoil,

And lightly brush thee with their purple wings
To aid the Zephyrs in their tuneful toil;

While others check each ruder gale,
Expel rough Boreas from the sky,
Nor let a breeze its heaving breath exhale,
Save such as softly pant, and panting die.

1 This instrument was first invented by Kircher about the year 1649. See his Musurgia Universalis, sive ars consoni et dissoni, lib. ix. After having been neglected above a hundred years, it was again accidentally discovered by Mr. Oswald.

Then, as thy swelling accents rise,

Fair Fancy, waking at the sound,

Shall paint bright visions on her raptured eyes,
And waft her spirits to enchanted ground;
To myrtle groves, Elysian greens,

In which some favourite youth shall rove, And meet, and lead her through the glittering And all be music, ecstasy, and love.

[scenes,

ODE X1.

FOR MUSIC.

IRREGULAR.

Lo! where incumbent o'er the shade
Rome's ravening eagle bows his beaked head;
Yet, while a moment fate affords,
While yet a moment freedom stays,
That moment, which outweighs

Eternity's unmeasured hoards,
Shall Mona's grateful bards employ
To hymn their godlike hero to the sky.

Radiant ruler of the day,

Pause upon thy orb sublime,
Bid this awful moment stay,

Bind it on the brow of time;
While Mona's trembling echoes sigh
To strains that thrill when heroes die.

1 When the dramatic poem of Caractacus was altered for theatrical representation in 1776, this dirge was added to be sung over the body of Arviragus. Being of the lyrical cast, the author found himself inclined to preserve it in the series of his Odes, published in 1797.

Hear our harps, in accents slow,
Breathe the dignity of woe,
Solemn notes that pant and pause,
While the last majestic close
In diapason deep is drown'd:
Notes that Mona's harp should sound.

See our tears in sober shower,
O'er this shrine of glory pour!
Holy tears by virtue shed,
That embalm the valiant dead;

In these our sacred song we steep:
Tears that Mona's bards should weep.

Radiant ruler, hear us call

Blessings on the godlike youth,
Who dared to fight who dared to fall,
For Britain, freedom, and for truth.
His dying groan, his parting sigh
Was music for the gods on high;
"Twas Valour's hymn to Liberty.

Ring out, ye mortal strings!

[all,

Answer, thou heavenly harp, instinct with spirit That o'er Andrastes' throne self-warbling [chime, There where ten thousand spheres, in measured Roll their majestic melodies along,

swings.

Thou guidest the thundering song, Poised on thy jasper arch sublime. Yet shall thy heavenly accents deign To mingle with our mortal strain,

And heaven and earth unite in chorus high, While Freedom wafts her champion to the sky.

ODE XI.

MAJESTIC pile! whose ample eye
Surveys the rich variety

Of azure hill, and verdant vale;
Say, will thy echoing towers return
The sighs, that, bending o'er her urn,
A Naiad heaves in yonder dale?

The pitying Muse, who hears her moan,
Smooths into song each gurgling groan,

And pleads the Nymph's and Nature's cause;

In vain, she cries, has simple Taste

The pride of formal Art defaced,

Where late yon height of terrace rose;

Has vainly bade the lawn decline,
And waved the pathway's easy line
Around the circuit of the grove,
To catch, through every opening glade,
That glimmering play of sun and shade,
Which peace and contemplation love.

Beauty in vain approved the toil,
And hail'd the sovereign of the soil,

Her own and fancy's favour'd friend;
For see, at this ill omen'd hour,
Base Art assumes his ancient power,

And bids yon distant mound ascend,

See, too, his tyrant grasp to fill,
In silence swells the pensive rill,

That carol'd sweet the vale along;
So swells the throbbing female breast,
By wiles of faithless swain oppress'd,

When love forbids to speak her wrong.

Tell me, chaste Mistress of the Wave!
If e'er thy rills refused to lave

The plain where now entrench'd they sleep? Would not thy stream at Fancy's call, O'er crags she lifted, fret and fall,

Through dells she shaded, purl and creep?

Yes, thou wert ever fond and free
To pour thy tinkling melody,

Sweet prattler, o'er thy pebbled floor;
Thy sisters, hid in neighbouring caves,
Would bring their tributary waves,

If genuine taste demanded more.

Why then does yon clay barrier rise?
Behold and weep, ye lowering skies!

Ah, rather join in vengeful shower:

Hither your watery phalanx lead,
And, deeply deluging the mead,

Burst through the bound with thunder's roar.

So shall the nymph, still fond and free

To pour her tinkling melody,

Again her lucid charms diffuse: No more shall mean mechanic skill Dare to confine her liberal rill,

Foe to the Naiad and the Muse.