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ODE, TO A LADY,

ON THE DEATH OF COL. CHARLES ROSS, IN THE ACTION AT FONTENOY.

Written May, 1745.

WHILE, lost to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While stain'd with blood he strives to tear Unseemly from his sea-green hair

The wreaths of cheerful May:

The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial 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,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their sainted rest :
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And wish th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where, sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sod which wraps the dead,
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,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear :
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild war insulting near:

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And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,

And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more aweful 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 hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

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 fills Autumn thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:

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Yet, e'en where'er the least appear'd
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They saw, by what escap'd the storm,
How wondrous rose her perfect form;
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty master pour'd his soul;
For sunny Florence, seat of Art,
Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,
Till they, whom Science lov'd to name,
(0, who could fear it!) quench'd her flame.
And, lo, an humbler relic laid

In jealous Pisa's olive shade!

See small Marino joins the theme,
Though least, not last in thy esteem;
Strike, louder strike th' ennobling strings
To those, whose merchants sons were kings;
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride :
Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure:
Nor e'er her former pride relate
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek,
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled.)

Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those to whom the stork is dear:
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whose crown a British queen refus'd!
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holier name alone remains ;
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

ANTISTROPHE.

Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works, the wizard Time has wrought!
The Gaul, 't is held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand †,
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
He pass'd with unwet feet through all our land.
To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding;
Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise,

A wide wild storm e'en Nature's self confounding, Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.

This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,

By winds and inward labours torn,

In thunders dread was push'd aside,

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The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe penalties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their liberties.

This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists, too, have endeavoured to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I do not remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it.

There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mermaid, becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horrour and surprise at her appearance. This, however, was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who attempted to carry on any coinmerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.

Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing goddess, stood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet :
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'T were hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains,
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
E'en now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to chuse,
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er Heaven's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, 'grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain:
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep :
Before whose breathing bosom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around,
"O, how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the West!"

THE PASSIONS.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

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,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 't is said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

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 rul'd 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 beguil'd, A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd 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 call'd 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 smil'd, and wav'd 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 sound so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat,

The doubling drum with furious heat; [tween, And though sometimes, each dreary pause beDejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'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-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,

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;

[stole,

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure Or o'er some haunted streams 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-ey'd

queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd 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 lov'd 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 fram'd 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 lov'd 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, energic, 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 endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate!

-

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND AKVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

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 red-breast 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 thy 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;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

AN ODE

ON THE

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND;

CONSIDERED AS

THE SUBJECT OF POETRY.

INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME.

HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long

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Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, [day Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth + [side; Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's Together let us wish him lasting truth

And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-liv'd 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, where every vale 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.

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;
Where still, 't is 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 bowls alots;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There, every herd, by sad experience, knows
How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly,
When the sick ewe her summer food forgoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain: [neglect; Nor thou, tho' learn'd, his homelier thoughts 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.

How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers!

A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.

E'en yet preserv'd, how often mayst thou hear, Where to the Pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father, to his listening son; Strange lays, whose power had charm'd a Spenser's

ear.

At every pause, before thy mind possest,

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-colour'd vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,

And strew'd 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 pour'd forth their brawny

swarms,

And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's arms.

'Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,
In Sky's lone isle, the gifted wizard-seer,
Lodg'd in the wintery cave with Fate's fell spear,
Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells:
How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own vision oft astonish'd droop;
When, o'er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.
Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,

Their destin'd glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,

And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey;

Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. They know what spirit brews the stormful day,

And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,

Oft have I seen Fate give the fatal blow! The seer, in Sky, shriek'd as the blood did flow, When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay! As Boreas threw his young Aurora* forth,

In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles rag'd in welkin of the North, They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight,

Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd! divining thro' their second sight†,

Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd!

Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame,

But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke,

To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

* By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which happened about the year 1715; at least, it is most highly probable, from this peculiar circumstance, that no ancient writer whatever has taken any notice of them, nor even any one modern, previous to the above period.

t Second sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders.

The late Duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender at the battle of Culloden.

These, too, thou 'lt sing! for well thy magic Muse
Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar;
Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!
Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er
lose;

Let not dank Will § mislead you to the heath:
Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,
He glows, to draw you downward to your death,
In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake!
What though far off, from some dark dell espied,
His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight,
Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,

Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed,

And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed!

Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed: On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood,

Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape,

To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrours clad, shall wild appear. Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise, Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly

force,

And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse!

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,

Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him in vain, at to-fall of the day,
His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate:
Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night

Her travell❜d limbs in broken slumbers steep,
With drooping willows drest his mournful sprite
Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:
Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,
Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,
And with his blue-swoln face before her stand,

And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: "Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils, pursue,

At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew,

While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore, Drown'd by the Kelpie's || wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!"

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,

§ A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Wisp, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places. The water-fiend.

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