Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him design'd?

High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil❜d,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,

Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread:

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I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,
Nigh spher'd in heaven, its native strains could hear;
On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung:
Thither oft, his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,

With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, 70 My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;

In vain-Such bliss to one alone,

Of all the sons of soul, was known;

And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,

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Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers;
Or curtain❜d close such scene from every future view.

F

ODE,

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746.

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.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

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ODE TO MERCY.

STROPHE.

O THOU, who sit❜st a smiling bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful side,

Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd;

Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear,

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And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground: 10
See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy shrine my country's genius stands,
And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a
wound.!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even our joys provoke,
The fiend of nature join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;
Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,

O'ertook him on his blasted road,

And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.

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I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to salvage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own;

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O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower;

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Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our mon

arch's throne!

ODE TO LIBERTY.

STROPHE.

WHO shall awake the Spartan fife,
And call in solemn sounds to life,
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,

Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,

At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?

What new Alcaeus', fancy-blest,

Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,

1 Alluding to that beautiful fragment of Alcæus :
Εν μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσω,

Ωσπερ Αρμόδιος κ ̓ Αριστογείτων,
Οτε τὸν τύραννον κτανέτην,
Ισονόμους τ' Αθήνας εποιησάτην.
Φιλταθ' Αρμόδι οὔ τι που τέθνηκας,
Νήσοις δ' ἐν μακάρων σε φασὶν εἶναι,
Ινα περ ποδώκης Αχιλεύς,

Τυδέιδην τε φασιν Διομήδεα.

Εν μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσω,
Ώσπερ Αρμόδιος κ' Αριστογείτων,
Οτ' Αθηναίης ἐν θυσίαις

Ανδρα τύραννον Ιππαρχον ἐκαινέτην.
Αεὶ σφῶν κλέος ἔσσεται κατ' αἶαν,
Φίλταθ' Αρμόδιε, κ' Αριστόγειτων,
Οτι τόν τύραννον κτάνετον,
Ισονόμους τ' Αθήνας ἐποιήσατον.

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