COLLINS.

$154. Ode to Evening. Faught of oaten stop, or paftoral fong, May hope, chafte Eve, to footh thy modeft ear, Like thy own folemn springs,

Thy fprings, and dying gales;

O nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits in yon weftern tent, whofe cloudy fkirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-eyed bat
With fhort fhrill thriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedlefs hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe fome foften'd ftrain,

Whofe numbers ftealing thro' thy darkening vale,
May not unfeemly with its ftillness fuit,
As, mufing flow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding-ftar arifing fhows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who flept in buds the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with fedge,

And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier ftill,
The penfive pleasures sweet
Prepare thy thadowy car.

Then let me rove fome wild and heathy feene,
Or find fome ruin 'midft its dreary dells,
Whofe walls incre awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill bluttering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's fide

Views wilds and fwelling floods,

§ 155. Ode to Peace.

COLLINS.

THOU, who bad ft thy turtles bear Swift from his grafp thy golden hair, And fought thy native skies: When war, by vultures drawn from far, To Britain bent his iron car,

And bade his storms arife!

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic fway,
Our youth fhall fix fome feftive day,
His fullen fhrines to burn:
But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres,
What founds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bloft return f

Peace, thy injur'd robes upbind!
O rife, and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy train:
The British lion, Goddess sweet,
Lies ftretch'd on earth to kifs thy feet,

And own thy holier reign.
Let others court thy tranfient fmile,
But come to grace thy weftern ifle,

By warlike Honour led!
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

§ 156. The Manners. An Ode. COLLINS. FAREWEL, for clearer ken defign'd,

The dim-difcover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My filent fearch in vain requir'd!
No more my fail that deep explores,
No more I fearch thofe magic fhores,
What regions part the world of foul,
Or whence thy ftreams, Opinion, roil:
If e'er I round fuch fairy field,
Some pow'r impart the fpear and shield,
At which the wizard paffions fly,
By which the giant follies die!

Farewel the porch, whofe roof is feen
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tiffued veft,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy dreft,

Comes

Comes like a bride, fo trim array'd, To wed with Doubt in Plato's thade! Youth of the quick uncheated fight, Thy walks, Obfervance, more invite! O thou, who lov'ft that ampler range

And, with her mingled fons allied,
Throw'ft the prattling page afide :
To me in converse sweet impart
To read in man the native heart,
To learn where Science fure is found,
From nature as the lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true
By turns each fhifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the leffons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule,

To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boaft,
Had blefs'd this focial fcience most.

Retiring hence to thoughtlefs cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent fpell,
Not vain he finds the cheerful talk,
In pageant quaint, in motley maik,
Behold, before her mufing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rife;
While, ever varying as they pafs,
To fome Contempt applies her glass :
With the fe the white-rob'd maids combine,
And thote the laughing fatyrs join!
But who is he whom now the views,
In robe of wild contending hues ?
Thou by the Pallions nurs'd, I greet
The comic fock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whofe name is known
To Britain's favour'd ifle alone,
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit
(Whofe jewels in his crifped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy fide.

By old Miletus*, who fo long Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong; By all you taught the Tufcan maids, In chang'd Italia's modern fhades;

By him whofe knight's diftinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's luft of fame;

Whofe tales e'en now, with echoes fweet,
Caftilia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's fhore,
Who drew the fad Sicilian maid
By virtues in her fire betray'd:

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful though, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy feal!

Let fome retreating Cynic find

Those off-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,

The Sports and I this hour agree

To rove thy fcene-full world with thee!

Exuiting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting,
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:
Lill once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fil'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the fupporting myrtles round
They fnatch'd her inftruments of found;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreffive pow'r.
First Fear his hand, its kill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n at the found himself had made.
Next Anger rufh'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his fecret ftings,
In one rude clafh he ftruck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair,

Low fullen founds, his grief beguil'd;
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,

'Twas fad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair,
What was thy delighted meafure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely fcenes at diftance hail !
Still would her touch the ftrain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo ftill through all the fong;
And where her sweetest theme the chofe,
A foft refponfive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted fmil'd, and wav'd her golden

+ Cervantes.

Of

No fecond growth the western ille could bear,
At once exhaufted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonfon knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost loft in Art.
Of fofter mold the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midft his fcenes we find
Each glowing thought that warms the female
mind;

Each melting figh, and every tender tear,
The lover's withes, and the virgin's fear.
His every ftain the Smiles and Graces own ;
But ftronger Shakspeare felt for man alone :
Drawn by his pen, our ruder paffions stand
Th' unrivall'd picture of his early hand.

With gradual steps, and flow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her fhores advance;
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and juft in all the drew.
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's fpirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free ftrain, as Rome and he infpir'd,
And claflic judgment gain'd to fweet Racine
The temperate ftrength of Maro's chafter line.
But wilder far the British hurel fpread,
And wreaths lefs artful crown our poet's head.
Yer he alone to every fcene could give
Th' hiftorian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call, I view with glad furprife
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rife.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurell'd Conqueft waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying figh,
Scarce born to honours, and fo foon to die!
Yet fhall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:

The time fhall come when Glofter's heart fhall bleed,

In life's laft hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary vifions thail at laft prefent
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent;
Thy hand unfeen the fecret death thall bear,
Blunt the weak fword, and break th' oppreffive
fpear.

Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find
Some fweet illufion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, the calls the foul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where fwains contented own the quiet fcene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green :
Dre's'd by her hand, the woods and valleys fimile,
And fpring diffufive decks th' enchanted ifle.

O, more than all in powerful genius bleft, Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breaft Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart fhall feel, Thy fongs fupport me, and thy morals heal!

There native inufic dwells in all the lays.
O, might fome verfe with happiest skill perfuade
Expreflive picture to adopt the aid!
What wondrous draughts might rife from every
page!

What other Raphaels charm a diftant age

!

Methinks even now I view fome free defign, Where breathing Nature lives in every line: Chaste and subd. ed the modest lights decay, Steal into thades, and mildly melt away. -And fee, where § Anthony, in tears approv'd, Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd: O'er the cold corfe the warrior feems to bend, Deep funk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend! Still as they prefs, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and joints the bleeding wound. But who is he whofe brows exalted bear A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air? Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel, On his own Roine he turns th' avenging steel. Yet fhall not war's infatiate fury fall, (So heaven ordains it) on the deftin'd wall. See the fond mother, 'midit the plaintive train, Hang on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!, Touch'd to the foul, in vain he strives to hide The fo.'s affection in the Roman's pride: O'er all the man conflicting paflions rife, Rage grafps the fword, while pity melts the eyes.

Thus, generous Critic, as thy bard infpires, The fifter Arts fhall nurfe their drooping fires; Each from his fcenes her ftores alternate bring, Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal ftring: Thofe Sibyl-leaves, the fport of every wind, (For poets ever were a carelefs kind) By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand, But, juft to nature, own thy forming hand.

So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole

unknown,

Ev'n Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone;
Their own Ulyles fearce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters caft on every shore:
When, rais'd by fate, fome former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

COLLINS,