O DE,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

OW fleep the brave, who fink to rest,

Ho

By all their country's wishes bleft! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mold, She there fhall dress a sweeter fod, Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unfeen their dirge is fung:
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!

ODE TO MERC Y.

STROPHE.

Thou, who fit'ft a smiling bride

By Valour's arm'd and awful fide, Gentleft of sky-born forms, and best ador'd: Who oft with fongs, divine to hear,

Win'st from his fatal grafp the spear,

And hid't in wreaths of flowers his bloodless fword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bofom bare art found,

Pleading for him the youth who finks to ground:

See Mercy, fee, with pure and loaded hands, Before thy fhrine my country's genius ftands, And decks thy altar ftill, tho' pierc'd with many a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even our joys provoke,
The Fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,

And

And rufh'd in wrath to make our isle his prey; Thy form, from out thy fweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road,

And ftop'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. I fee recoil his fable steeds,

That bore him swift to favage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;

O Maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower,

Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne!

ODE TO LIBERTY.

W

STROPHE,

'HO fhall awake the Spartan fife,

And call in folemn founds to life,

The youths, whofe locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in fullen hue,

At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alcæus, fancy-bleft,

Shall fing the fword, in myrtles drest,

At Wisdom's fhrine a-while its flame concealing, (What place fo fit to feal a deed renown'd?)

Till fhe her brighteft lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted O Goddess, in that feeling hour, [wound! When moft its founds would court thy ears, Let not my fhell's misguided power, E'er draw thy fad, thy mindful tears.

No,

No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy weeping face,
With heaviest found, a giant-ftatue, fell,
Pufh'd by a wild and artless race,

From off its wide ambitious base,

When Time his northern fons of spoil awoke, And all the blended work of ftrength and grace, With many a rude repeated stroke,

And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.

EPODE.

2.

Yet even, where'er the leaft appear'd,
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd ;
Still, 'midft the fcatter'd ftates around,
Some remnants of her ftrength were found,
They faw, by what escap'd the storm;
How wonderous rofe her perfect form,
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty mafter pour'd his foul;

For