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Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride design ;
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat

In all who view the shrine.

But who is he, whom later garlands grace,

Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove !

There Picture's toil shall well relate,
How Chance, or hard involving Fate,

O'er mortal bliss prevail :
The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And, sighing, prompt her tender hand

With each disastrous tale.

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous queen,t

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.


There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,

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

To hear a British shell !


Thou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who see'st appallid th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between :

Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!

I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye! Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd Ay. For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear' Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fixt behold ? Who stalks his round, a hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep: And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind : And those, the fiends, who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds and wrecks preside; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lists her red arm, expos’d and bare ; On whom that ravening brood of Fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait; Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee?

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 shuddering meek submitted

Be mine, to read the visions old,
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'er-aw'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 bruke,
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!




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.

In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice

The grief-full Muse address'd her infant tongue; 'The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung:

Yet he, the bard * who first invok'd thy name,

Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

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

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

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!

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 !



Who shall awake the Ssirtan fife,
And call in solemn sor nds to life,

Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, The works, the wizard Time has wrought!
Like vernal hyacirths in sullen hue,

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,

Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand,+ Applauding F endom lov'd of old to view ? No sea between, nor cliff sublime and huary What new Al-ens, fancy-blest,

He pass'd with unwet feet through all our land Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,

To the blown Baltic then, they say, At Wisden's shrine awhile its flame concealing,

The wild waves found another way, (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd ?) Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,

Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, It 'eap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted A wide wild storm e'en Nature's self confounding, wound!

Withering her giant sons with strange uncouil O goddess, in that feeling hour,

surprise. Vhen most its sounds would court thy ears,

This pillar'd earth so firm and wide, Let not my shell's misguided power

By winds and inward labors torn, E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.

In thunders dread was push'd aside, No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,

And down the shouldering billows borne How Rome, before thy face,

And søe, like gems, her laughing train, With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,

The little isles on every side, Push'd by a wild and artless race,

Monat once hid from those who search the main, From off its wide ambitious base,

Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, And Wight, who checks the westering tide,

And all the blended work of strength and grace For thee consenting Heaven has each bestow'd,
With many a rude repeated stroke,

A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments

To thee this blest divorce she ow'd, broke.

For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last a bode!



Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,

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 labor'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 favor'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled.)

* The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe pen. alties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and par. ticularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to en. tertain 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 endeavored 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.

1 There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mer. maid, becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordi. nary 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 horror and surprise at her appearance. This, how. ever, 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 at. tempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.

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 woful measures wan Despair

Low. sullen sounds his grief beguilid, A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fils, by starts 'twas wild.

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,
"Twere 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 .carn delighted, and amaz’d,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd ?
E'en now, before his favor'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 choose,
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 !"

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 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 sinil'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;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected 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 callid on

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; Through glades and glooms the mingled measurestole 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.



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, refind;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

The red-breast oft at evening hours

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

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

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

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd

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 odors from his dewy wings.

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.







O Music, sphere-descended maid,

Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?

HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads As in that lov'd Athenian bower,

long You learn'd an all-commanding power,

Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,

Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future day Can well recall what then it heard.

Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.* Where is thy native simple heart,

Go, not unmindful of that cordial youtht Devote to virtue, fancy, art ?

Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Arise, as in that elder time,

Together let us wish him lasting truth Warm, energic, chaste, sublime !

And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Thy wonders, in that godlike age,

Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast Fill thy recording sister's page

My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; "Tis said, and I believe the tale,

But think, far off, how, on the Southern coast, Thy humblest reed could more prevail,

I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Had more of strength, diviner rage,

Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale Than all which charms this laggard age, Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand : E'en all at once together found

To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail ; Cæcilia's mingled world of sound

Thou need'st but take 'thy pencil to thy hand, O, bid our vain endeavors cease,

And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land. Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state !

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; Confirm the tales her sons relate!

"Tis Fancy's land to which thou seli'si thy feet;

Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meel, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There each trim lass, that skims the milky store

To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls allots ; DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,

By night they sip it round the cottage-door,

While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, There, every herd, by sad experience, knows

How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Such airy beings awe th' untulor'd swain: Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts And rifle all the breathing Spring.


Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain ;
No wailing ghost shall dare appear

These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,

That add new conquests to her boundless reign, But shepherd lads assemble here,

And fill with double force her heart-commanding 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.

* How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers!

† A gentleman of the name of Rarrow, whe introduced Home to Colljus.

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