And drest with Springs, and Forests tall,
And pour'd the Main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd Enthusiast woo'd,
Himself in some Diviner Mood,
Retiring, sate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his Saphire Throne,
The whiles, the vaulted Shrine around,
Seraphic Wires were heard to sound,
Now sublimest Triumph swelling,
Now on Love and Mercy dwelling;
And she, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic Notes aloud:
And Thou, Thou rich-hair'd Youth of Morn,
And all thy subject Life was born!
The dang'rous Passions kept aloof,
Far from the sainted growing Woof:
But near it sate Ecstatic Wonder,
List'ning the deep applauding Thunder;
And Truth, in sunny Vest array'd,
By whose the Tarsel's Eyes were made;
All the shad'wy Tribes of Mind,
In braided Dance their Murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted Pow'rs
Who feed on Heav'n's ambrosial Flow'rs.
Where is the Bard, whose Soul can now
Its high presuming Hopes avow?
Where He who thinks, with Rapture blind,
This hallow'd Work for Him design'd?
High on some Cliff, to Heav'n 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 Gloomes embrown, its Springs unlock,
ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER 39
While on its rich ambitious Head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread.
I view that Oak, the fanciest Glades among,
By which as Milton lay, His Ev'ning Ear,
From many a Cloud that drop'd Ethereal Dew,
Nigh spher'd in Heav'n 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,
My trembling Feet his guiding Steps pursue;
In vain-Such Bliss to One alone,
Of all the Sons of Soul was known,
And Heav'n, and Fancy, kindred Pow'rs,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring Bow'rs,
Or curtain'd close such Scene from ev'ry future View.
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 Mold,
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 grey,
To bless the Turf that wraps their Clay,
And Freedom shall a-while repair,
To dwell a weeping Hermit there!
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,
And hid'st in Wreaths of Flow'rs 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: 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!
When he whom ev'n 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 stop'd his Wheels, and look'd his Rage away.
I see recoil his sable Steeds,
That bore Him swift to Salvage Deeds,
Thy tender melting Eyes they own;
O Maid, for all thy Love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her Iron Tow'r,
To Thee we build a roseate Bow'r,
Thou, Thou shalt rule our Queen, and share our Monarch's Throne!
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 Alcæus *, Fancy-blest,
Shall sing the Sword, in Myrtles drest,
At Wisdom's Shrine a-while its Flame concealing, (What Place so fit to seal a Deed renown'd?)
Till she her brightest Lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in Glory forth, and dealt her prompted Wound !
Ο Goddess, in that feeling Hour,
When most its Sounds would court thy Ears,
Let not my Shell's misguided Pow'r †,
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful Tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy weeping Face,
* Alluding to that beautiful Fragment of Alcaus.
Ἐν μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσω,
Ὥσπερ Αρμόδιος καὶ ̓Αριστογείτων.
Φίλταθ' Αρμόδιο, οὔπω τέθνηκας,
Νήσοις δ' ἐν Μακάρων σέ φασιν εἶναι.
Ἐν μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσω,
Ὥσπερ Αρμόδιος καὶ ̓Αριστογείτων,
Ὅτ' Αθηναίης ἐν θυσίαις
̓́Ανδρα τύραννον Ιππαρχον ἐκαινέτην.
Αεὶ σφῶν κλέος ἔσσεται κατ' αἶαν,
Φίλταθ' Αρμόδιο, καὶ ̓Αριστογείτων.
Μὴ μὴ ταῦτα λέγωμες, ἃ δάκρυον ἤγαγε Δηοί.
Callimach. Ὕμνος εἰς Δήμητρα.
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