Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous* queen Sigh'd the sad call† her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.

O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart:
Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line:
Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou who such weary lengths hast past
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?

Or, in some hollow'd seat,

'Gainst which the big waves beat,

Hear drowning seamen's cries, in tempests brought? Dark power, with shudd'ring meek submitted thought.

Be mine to read the visions old

* Jocasta.

t

εδ ετ' ορώρει βοη

Ην μεν Σιωπη; φθεγμα δ' εξαιφνης τινος
Θωυξεν αυτον, ωστε παντας ορθιας
Στησαι φοβω δεισαντας εξαιφνης Τρίχας.

See the dip. Colon. of Sophocles.

Which thy awakening bards have told :
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve, abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave ;
And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou, whose spirit most possest The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast! By all that from thy prophet broke, In thy divine emotions spoke; Hither again thy fury deal,

Teach me but once like him to feel:

His cypress wreath my meed decree
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

O THOU, by Nature taught

To breathe her genuine thought,

In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
Who first, on mountains wild,

In Fancy, loveliest child,

Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the power of song!

Thou, who, with hermit heart,

Disdain'st the wealth of art,

And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall;

But com'st a decent maid,

In attic robe array'd,

O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!

By all the honey'd store

On Hybla's thymy shore;

By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear;

By her* whose love-lorn woe,

*The andwv, or nightingale, for which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness.

In evening musings slow,
Sooth'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

By old Cephisus deep,

Who spread his wavy sweep,

In warbled wanderings, round thy green retreat;

On whose enamell'd side,

When holy Freedom died,

No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet.

O sister meek of Truth,

To my admiring youth,

Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
The flowers that sweetest breathe,

Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,

Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.

While Rome could none esteem

But virtue's patriot theme,

You lov'd her hills, and led her laureate band:

But staid to sing alone

To one distinguish'd throne;

And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.

No more, in hall or bow'r,

The Passions own thy power;

Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean:

For thou hast left her shrine;

Nor olive more, nor vine,

Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

Though taste, though genius, bless

To some divine excess,

Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply,

May court, may charm, our eye:

Thou, only thou canst raise the melting soul!

Of these let others ask,

To aid some mighty task,

I only seek to find thy temperate vale ;

Where oft my reed might sound

To maids and shepherds round,

And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale,