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WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
ODE, TO A LADY,
ON THE DEATH OF COL. CHARLES ROSS, IN THE
ACTION AT FONTENOY.
Written May, 1745. WHILE, lost to all his former mirth, Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day : While stain'd with blood he strives to tear Unseemly from his sea-green hair The wreaths of cheerful May:
The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
Your faithful hours attend :
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
Where'er the youth is laid :
And Peace protect the shade.
O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
And bend the pensive head;
Shall point his lonely bed !
The warlike dead of every age,.
Shall leave their sainted rest :
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laureld field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
And wish th' avenging tight.
But, lo! where, sunk in deep despair,
Impatient Freedom lies!
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground, Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor'd : Till William seek the sad retreat, And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.
If, weak to soothe -so soft an heart,
To dry thy constant tear :
Wild war insulting near :
Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
Her gentlest promise keep :
ODE TO EVENING.
Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Like thy own solemn springs,
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,
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding-star arising shows
The fragrant hours, and elves
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.
Whose walls more aweful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
Thy dewy fingers draw
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:
Affrights thy shrinking train,
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Thy gentlest influence own,