He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down

And with a with'ring look

The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 45 And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat; And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the

best.

They would have thought, who heard the strain,

85

They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids
Amidst the vestal 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 odours from his dewy wings.

O Music sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r
You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page.
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found,
Cæcilia's mingled world of sound.
O bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state,
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

AN ODE

92

ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY

I

queen,

75

Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

H—, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen

Have seen thee ling'ring, with a fond delay, 'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some

Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth

Whom, long-endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side;

Together let us wish him lasting truth,

And joy untainted, with his destined bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; 10 But think, far off, how on the Southern coast I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose ev'ry vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; 15 Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

II

20

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet,
Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet
Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill.
There each trim lass that skims the milky store
To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. 25
There ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows

How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly; When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain: 30 Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect;

Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain: These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.

III

35

Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel,

275

76

In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles rag'd in welkin of the North, They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight,

Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd, They rav'd, divining, thro' their second sight, 80 Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd!

Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame;

But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, 85 To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

1 This Ode was first published after the death of Collins. The bracketed passages are missing in the original and are here supplied from an unauthorized edition, London, 1788.

Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath:
Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,
He glows, to draw you downward to your death,
In his bewitch'd, low, marshy willow brake !]
What tho' far off, from some dark dell espied, 95
His glimm'ring mazes cheer th' excursive sight,
Yet turn, ye wand'rers, turn your steps aside,

Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unrustling reed,

At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, 100 And listens oft to hear the passing steed,

And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

VII

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed! 104 Whom, late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then, To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy weed] On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood,

Shall never look with Pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood 110 O'er its drown'd bank, forbidding all return. Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape

To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape,

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,

Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song

165

Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, 161 And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temp'rance, at the needful time, They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-prest, Along th' Altantic rock undreading climb, And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus blest in primal innocence they live, Suffic'd and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. 169 Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

ΧΙ

Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage

Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest;

And with their terrors drest the magic scene. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant past. Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answ'ring bosom pierce; Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold,

The native legends of thy land rehearse; 187 To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy pow'rful verse.

XII

190

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to nature true,
And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,
Th' heroic muse employ'd her Tasso's art!
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd;
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd
sword!

How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind,
To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,
Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind

Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence at each sound imagination glows;
[The MS. lacks a line here.]

200

277

Meantime, ye Pow'rs that on the plains which bore

The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend, Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir,

220

To him I lose your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

MARK AKENSIDE (1721-1770)

THE NIGHTINGALE

To-night retired, the queen of heaven

With young Endymion stays;

And now to Hesper it is given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.

Propitious send thy golden ray,

Thou purest light above!

Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie. hid for harm;
But lead where music's healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.

To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns, Olympia's haunts, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.

Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came, while her enchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd
She fled the solemn shade.

But hark! I hear her liquid tone!
Now Hesper guide my feet!
Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.

See the green space: on either hand
Enlarged it spreads around:

See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o'er half the level mead,
Enclosed in woods profound.

Hark! how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:

How sweetly down the void they float!

ΙΟ

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