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 spread,

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

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

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,
These 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'ft relief,

The Muse shall still, with focial grief,
Her gentleft promise keep:

Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale

Shall learn the fad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.

ODE

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

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

Thy fprings, and dying gales,

O Nymph referv'd, while now the bright hair'd fun Sits in yon western tent, whofe cloudy fkirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill fhriek flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

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

To breathe fome soften'd ftrain,

Whose numbers ftealing thro' thy darkning vale,
May not unfeemly with its ftillness fuit,

As mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding-ftar arifing fhows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who flept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with

fedge,

And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The penfive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy fhadowy car.

Then let me rove fome wild and heathy scene,

Or find fome rain 'midft its dreary dells,

Whofe walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or

Or if chill bluftring winds, or driving rain,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's fide,

Views wilds, and fwelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-difcover'd fpires.
And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring fhall pour his fhowers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light:

While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air,

Affrights thy fhrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes:

So long regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, fmiling Peace,

Thy gentleft influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

ODE