O THOU! Who sitt'st a smiling bride Winn'st from his fatål grasp the spear, 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, himself," and deprived the world of many great things he had planned, and to the execution of which he was competent. His fate was a sad one; "while he studied to live, he felt no evil but poverty;" but when he lived to study, his life was assailed by more dreadful calamities-disease and insanity." The poetical productions of Collins fill but a few pages. Of late years they have been justly classed among the finest and most perfect compositions in the language. It is singular that his merit should not have been appreciated by his contemporaries. Cowper never heard of him until after his death; and Dr. Johnson, who knew and loved him, appears to be in no way surprised that fame should not have followed his publications. Posterity has made ample amends for the neglect it was his destiny to experience. The autograph of Collins is copied from a deed signed by him and his two sisters, dated May 1, 1747, assigning to a person of the name of Crowcher; their interest in the house and premises O THOU! Who sitt'st a smiling bride Winn'st from his fatal grasp the spear, 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, See, Mercy, see! with pure and loaded hands, Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands, And decks thy altar still, though pierc'd with many a wound! ANTISTROPHE. When he whom e'en our joys provoke, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey: O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. I see recoil his sable steeds, That bore him swift to savage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own; O maid! for all thy love to Britain shewn, To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne! ODE TO EVENING. IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales; O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun With brede ethereal wove, Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding-star arising shows Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, Beneath thy lingering light: While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, |