« ForrigeFortsett »
O Friendship! if my soul forego
To mortify and grieve me,
Or may my friend deceive me!
ODE TO PEACE.
Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view;
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
And pleasure's fatal wiles ?
The banquet of thy smiles ?
The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequester'd shed,
To be a guest with them?
For thee I panted, thee I prized,
Whate'er I loved before ;
Farewell! we meet no more?
When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods;
Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief.
Princess ! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties
All the terrours of our tongues.
Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !
Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow : Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ;
Dying hurl'd them at the foe;
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
Patron of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no meaning;
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations;
Too covetous of drink,
A poet's drop of ink? Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now, Impellid through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow : Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies,
Combined with millions more, To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
To place it in thy bow,
With equal grace below.