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Deferted ftream, and mute?
Wild Arun † too has heard thy ftrains,
And Echo, 'midft my native plains,
Been footh'd by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles fhed
On gentleft Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was fhewn;
And while he fung the female heart,
With youth's foft notes unfpoil'd by art,
Thy turtles mix'd their own.

Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
Ev'n now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride defign:

Its fouthern fite, its truth compleat
Shall raise a wild enthufiaft heat,

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 buskin'd Mufe fhall near her ftand,
And fighing prompt her tender hand,
With each difastrous tale.

There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of paffion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell:

There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight

To hear a British shell!

ODE

ODE TO FEA R.

TH

Hou, to whom the world unknown 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!
Like thee I ftart, like thee diforder'd fly,
For, lo what monfters in thy train appear!
Danger, whofe limbs of giant mold
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who ftalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight ftorm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of fome loofe hanging rock to fleep :
And with him thoufand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:
And thofe, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks prefide;

While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare :
On whom that ravening Brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghaftly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

EPODE.

In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muse addreft her infant tongue;
The maids and matrons, on her awful voice

Silent and pale in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the Bard * who first invok'd thy name,
Difdain'd in Marathon its power to feel:

For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,
But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's fteel.

But who is he, whom later garlands grace,

Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews, to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and Furies fhar'd the baleful grove ? * fchylus.

Wrapt

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queen
Sigh'd the fad call her fon and husband heard,
When once alone it broke the filent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.

*

O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,
Thy withering power infpir'd each mournful line,
Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

"

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine !

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou who fuch weary lengths haft paft,
Where wilt thou reft, mad Nymph, at last ?

Say, wilt thou fhroud in haunted cell,

Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?

Or in fome hollow'd feat,

'Gainft which the big waves beat,

Hear drowning feamens cries in tempefts brought! Dark power, with fhuddering meek fubmitted

Be mine, to read the vifions old,

[thought,

Which thy awakening bards have told:

* Jocafta.

And,

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