Ye forms divine, ye laureat band, That near her inmost altar stand! Now foothe her, to her blissful train Blithe Concord's focial form to gain: Concord, whofe myrtle wand can steep Even Anger's blood-shot eyes in fleep: Before whofe breathing bofom's balm, Rage drops his steel, and ftorms grow calm; Her let our fires and matrons hoar Welcome to Briton's ravag'd fhore, Our youths, enamour'd of the fair, Play with the tangles of her hair, Till, in one loud applauding found, The nations shout to her around, O how fupremely art thou bleft, Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west!

To a Lady, on the Death of Colonel CHARLES Ross in the Action at Fontenoy.

Written MAY, MDCCXLV.

WHILE, loft to all his former mirth,

Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While ftain'd with blood he ftrives to tear
Unfeemly from his fea-green hair

The wreaths of chearful May:

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:

Still Fancy, to herself unkind,

Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:

That facred spot the village hind

With

every sweetest turf shall bind,

And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve, Aerial forms fhall fit at eve,

And bend the penfive head!

And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their fainted reft;

And half-reclining on his fpear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Creffy's laurell'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight.

But lo where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted treffes madly fpread,

To every fod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er fhall fhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round

G

Proclaim her reign restor❜d:
Till William feek the fad retreat,

And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated fword.

If, weak to foothe fo foft an heart,
Thefe pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear:

If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou feeft him lie,

Wild war infulting near:

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall ftill, with focial grief,
Her gentlest promise keep :

Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the fad repeating tale,
And bid her fhepherds weep.

ODE TO EVENING.

Faught of oaten ftop, or paftoral fong,

IF or

May hope, chafte Eve, to foothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own folemn springs,

Thy fprings and dying gales,

O Nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short fhrill fhriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As oft he rifes 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedlefs hum:
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,

To breathe fome foften'd ftrain,

Whose numbers stealing thro' thy dark'ning vale, May not unfeemly with its stillness fuit,

As mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!