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With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And, from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul :

And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined 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 altered was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring'air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known !
The oak-crowned 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 Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round :)
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
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 learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
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 godlike 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,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
O bid our vain endeavours cease ;
Revive the just designs of Greece :
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate !

ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. 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.

1 The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

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 his 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 ? 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-crowned 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 veiled the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek nature's child, again adieu ! The genial meads, assigned to bless

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

With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

* Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes :
O vales and wild woods! shall he say,

In yonder grave your druid lies!

AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS

OF SCOTLAND?

Inscribed to Mr. Home, Author of Douglas.

Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long

Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay

'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.

Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth ?
Whom, long endeared, thou leav'st by Lavant's side ;

Together let us wish him lasting truth,
And joy untainted with his destined bride.

Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name ;.

But think far off how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame!

Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose every valc
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand :

To thee thy copious 'subjects ne'er shall fail ;
Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

1 The text here given is that in which this ode was first printed, in the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, 1780. Of the passages within brackets some were supplied in that version, to fill up lacunæ, by Dr. Carlyle, and some are from the later editions.

? Mr. John Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.

II. .
There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill ;

'Tis Fancy's land to which thou set’st thy feet;
- Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill.
There, each trim lass that skims the milky store

To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots ; By night they sip it round the cottage door,

While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. There every herd, by sad experience, knows

How, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food forgoes,

Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe the untutored swain :

Nor thou, though learned, his homelier thoughts neglect; Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain ;

These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.

III.

Ev'n yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear,
Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,

Taught by the father to his listening son
Strange lays, whose power had charmed a Spenser's ear.

At every pause, before thy mind possest,
Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,

With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest,
Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned :

Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat
Phe choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave,

When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,
And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave;

Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel',
Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms ;

When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,
The sturdy clans poured forth their bony swarms,
And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.

A hut among the mountains.

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