Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, 25 EPODE. In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice, The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice, Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the bardd who first invoked thy name, 30 Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel: For not alone he nursed the poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. But who is he whom later garlands grace, Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to rove, 35 With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove? Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, the incestuous queen d Eschylus. f e Jocasta. οὐδ ̓ ἔτ ̓ ὠρώρει βοή, See the Edip. Colon. of Sophocles. 40 O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart: Thy withering power inspired each mournful line: Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, ANTISTROPHE. Thou who such weary lengths hast past, 'Gainst which the big waves beat, 50 Hear drowning seamen's cries, in tempests brought? Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought, Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awakening bards have told : 55 60 O thou, whose spirit most possess'd The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast! 65 By all that from thy prophet broke, Teach me but once like him to feel: 70 ODE TO SIMPLICITY. ८ O THOU, by Nature taught a To breathe her genuine thought,~~ In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who, with hermit heart, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall ; But comest 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 lovelorn woe, In evening musings slow, Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear: 10 14 The άndov, or nightingale, for which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness. By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep, 20 In warbled wanderings, round thy green retreat; | On whose enamel'd side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allured thy future feet. O sister meek of Truth, To my admiring youth, Thy sober aid and native charms infuse ! Though Beauty cull'd the wreath, 25. Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. 30 While Rome could none esteem But virtue's patriot theme, You loved her hills, and led her laureat band: To one distinguish'd throne; And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in hall or bower, The Passions own thy power; Love, only Love her forceless numbers meạn : Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius, bless To some divine excess, 35 40 |