ODE TO PITY. Thou, the friend of man affign'd, With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe: When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to wafte his deftin'd scene, His wild unfated foe! By Pella's Bard, a magic name, By all the griefs his thought could frame, Long, Pity, let the nations view Thy fky-worn robes of tendereft blue, And eyes of dewy light! But wherefore need I wander wide To old Iliffus' distant side, Deferted Deferted ftream, and mute? Wild Arun too has heard thy strains, There firft the wren thy myrtles fhod And while he fung the female heart, Thy turtles mix'd their own, Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid, Its fouthern fite, its truth complete In all who view the fhrine. There Picture's toil fhall well relate, How chance, or hard involving fate A river in Suffex, O'er O'er mortal blifs prevail: The bufkin'd Muse shall near her stand, And fighing prompt her tender hand, With each difaftrous tale. There let me oft, retir'd by day, Allow'd with thee to dwell; There waste the mournful lamp of night, Till, Virgin, thou again delight To hear a British shell! ODE TO FEAR. Hou, to whom the world unknown I Wich With all its fhadowy shapes is fhewn Who feeft appall'd th' unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veil between: Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear! I fee, I fee thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye! |