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Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain
Which Heav'n may hear, nor deem religion

vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heav'n the measure and the

choice : Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious pray'r; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resign'd; For love, which scarce collective man can

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,

Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; And sure th' Eternal Master found

The single talent well employ'd. The busy day, the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; His frame was firm, his powers were bright,

Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no throbs of fiery pain,

No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And forced his soul the nearest way.

Samuel Johnson.-Born 1709, Died 1784.

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Allow'd with thee to dwell :
There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight

To hear a British shell !
William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

888.-ODE.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows

with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelior

still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy

scene; Or find some ruin ʼmidst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's side,

Views wilds, and swelling floods, And bamlets brown, and dim-discovered

spires ; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er

all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky vei). While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he

wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest

Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with

leaves ; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes ;

By fairy hands their knell is rung ;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there !

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling

Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!
William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

889.-ODE TO EVENING. If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest

ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales ; O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd

Sun Sits in yon western tint, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed

bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern

wing;

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy

darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,

890.-TO THE PASSIONS. 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 Muse's painting, By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined ; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 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 ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.

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 beguiled ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper'd promised 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 callid 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 smiled, and waved 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

between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild uvalter'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 up-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sate retired, 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.

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 inspiring 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 rejoiced to hear ;
And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen

spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the

best ; They would have thought who heard the

strain They saw, in Tempé'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 framed with Mirth a gay fantastic

round : Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un

bound; 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 loved Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
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 god-like 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,
Cæcilia's mingled world of sound-
O bid our vain endeavour cease ;
Revive the just designs of Greece :
Return in all thy simple state !
Confirm the tales her sons relate !

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756. 891.—DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen ;

No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female Fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell ; Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; Each lonely scene shall thee restore;

For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

William Collins.--Born 1720, Died 1756.

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering

near ?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,

And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide

No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,

Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! The genial meads assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom.; Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,

With simple hands, thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : “Oh! vales and wild woods,” shall he say, “In yonder grave your Druid lies!”

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

892.-ODE ON THE DEATH OF

THOMSON.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,

To deck its poet's sylvan grave.
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here,

And, while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid the gentle spirit rest !
And oft, as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire

And’mid the varied landscape weep.
But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,

Ah ! what will every dirge avail ; Or, tears, which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail ?

893.—THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest Worth neglected

lies While partial Fame doth with her blasts

adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp dis

guise ;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise :
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try
To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies,

Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity.

In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to

Fame, There dwells in lowly shed, and mean

attire, A matron old, whom we School-mistress

name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to

tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance

pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame;

And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely

shent.

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A russet stole was o'er her shoulders

thrown; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so

fair! 'Twas her own labour did the fleece

prepare ; And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged

around, Through pious awe, did term it passing

rare ; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest

wight on ground.

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt for-

sooth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; Yet these she challenged, these she held

right dear : Ne would esteem him act as mought

behove, Who should not honour'd eld with these

revere : For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that

title love.

And work the simple vassals mickle woe ;
For not a wind inight curl the leaves that

blew,
But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse

beat low; And as they look'd they found their horrour

grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the

view.
So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ;
They start, they stare,' they wheel, they

look aghast;
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!

Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. Near to this dome is found a patch so

green, On which the tribe their gambols do dis.

play; And at the door imprisoning-board is seen, Lest weakly wights of smaller size should

stray; Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! The noises intermixed, which thence re

sound, Do Learning's little tenement betray ; Where sits the dame, disguised in look

profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her

wheel around.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield :
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field :
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does

wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear

entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance fillid; And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction

join'd, And fury uncontrould, and chastisement

unkind. Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet

pourtray'd, The childish faces of old Eol's train; Libs, Notus, Auster : these in frowns

array'd,
How then would fare or Earth, or Sky, or

Main,
Were the stern god to give his slaves the

rein ?
And were not she rebellious breasts to

quell, And were not she her statutes to maintain, The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the

cell, Where comely peace of mind, and decent order

dwell.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impellid by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came! Such favour did her past deportment

claim : And, if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect tho

same; For well she knew, and quaintly could ex

pound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb

she found.

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could

speak That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew; Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy

streak; But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew : The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue ;

The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here

to rhyme.

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues

around; And pungent radish, biting infants' tongue; And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's

wound; And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie

found;

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