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ODES ON Various Subjects.
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EURIPIDES in Alceſte.
By JOSEPH WARTON, B. A. of Oriel College, Oxon.
LONDON: Printed for R. DODSLEY, at Tully's Head in Pall-mall; and ſold by M. COOPER in Pater-noſter Row. M.DCC.XLVI.
Advertiſement.
[]THE Public has been ſo much accuſtom'd of late to didactic Poetry alone, and Eſſays on moral Subjects, that any work where the imagination is much indulged, will perhaps not be reliſhed or regarded. The author therefore of theſe pieces is in ſome pain leaſt certain auſtere critics ſhould think them too fanciful and deſcriptive. But as he is convinced that the faſhion of mora⯑lizing in verſe has been carried too far, and as he looks upon Invention and Imagination to be the chief faculties of a Poet, ſo he will be happy if the following Odes may be look'd upon as an attempt to bring back Poetry into its right channel.
[5]ODES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
ODE I.
To FANCY.
O Parent of each lovely Muſe,
Thy ſpirit o'er my ſoul diffuſe,
O'er all my artleſs ſongs preſide,
My footſteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built ſhrine,
In golden cups no coſtly wine,
[6] No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O Nymph, with looſely-flowing hair,
With buſkin'd leg, and boſom bare,
Thy waiſt with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy ſnowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid freſh gardens blow
'Midſt chearleſs Lapland's barren ſnow,
Whoſe rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and ſea,
While the vaſt, various landſcape lies
Conſpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the deſart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathleſs vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's ſide,
'Midſt falls of water you reſide,
'Midſt broken rocks, a rugged ſcene,
With green and graſſy dales between,
[7] 'Midſt foreſts dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's ſtroke,
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one ſtraw-rooft cott was rear'd,
Where NATURE ſeems to ſit alone,
Majeſtic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, ſweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown ſequeſter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluſter round the door,
Where ſhells and moſs o'erlay the floor,
And on whoſe top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whoſe thickly-woven boughs,
Some nightingale ſtill builds her neſt,
Each evening warbling thee to reſt;
Then lay me by the haunted ſtream
Wrapt in ſome wild, poëtic dream,
In converſe while methinks I rove
With SPENSER thro' a fairy grove;
Till ſuddenly awoke, I hear
Strange whiſper'd muſic in my ear,
[8] And my glad ſoul in bliſs is drown'd,
By the ſweetly-ſoothing ſound!
Me, Goddeſs, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where JOY and white-rob'd PEACE reſort,
And VENUS keeps her feſtive court,
Where MIRTH and YOUTH each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
Where LAUGHTER roſe-lip'd HEBE leads;
Where ECHO walks ſteep hills among,
Liſt'ning to the ſhepherd's ſong:
Or ſometimes in thy fiery car
Tranſport me to the rage of war;
There whirl me o'er the hills of ſlain,
Where Tumult and Deſtruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded ſteed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror ſtalks around,
With ſullen joy ſurveys the ground,
[9] And pointing to th' enſanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-ſhield!
Then guide me from this horrid ſcene
To high-archt walks and alleys green,
Where lovely LAURA walks, to ſhun
The fervors of the mid-day ſun;
The pangs of abſence, O remove,
For thou can'ſt place me near my love,
Can'ſt fold in viſionary bliſs,
And let me think I ſteal a kiſs,
While her ruby lips diſpenſe
Luſcious nectar's quinteſſence!
When young-ey'd SPRING profuſely throws
From her green lap the pink and roſe,
When the ſoft turtle of the dale,
To SUMMER tells her tender tale,
When AUTUMN cooling caverns ſeeks,
And ſtains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When WINTER, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his ſilver beard with cold,
[10] At every ſeaſon let my ear
Thy ſolemn whiſpers, FANCY, hear.
O warm, enthuſiaſtic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a ſoul to every line,
Ne'er may I ſtrive with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd ſtrain,
Nor dare to touch the ſacred ſtring,
Save when with ſmiles thou bid'ſt me ſing.
O hear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented SHAKESPEAR'S tomb,
On which thou lov'ſt to ſit at eve,
Muſing o'er your darling's grave;
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate ſome choſen ſwain,
Who fill'd with unexhauſted fire,
May boldly ſmite the ſounding lyre,
Who with ſome new, unequall'd ſong,
May riſe above the rhyming throng,
[11] O'er all our liſt'ning paſſions reign,
O'erwhelm our ſouls with joy and pain,
With terror ſhake, with pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t'attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottos talk;
Teach him to ſcorn with frigid art
Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
Like light'ning, let his mighty verſe
The boſom's inmoſt foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applauſe,
Beyond cold critic's ſtudied laws:
O let each Muſe's fame encreaſe,
O bid BRITANNIA rival GREECE!
ODE II.
To LIBERTY.
[12]O Goddeſs, on whoſe ſteps attend
PLEASURE and laughter-loving HEALTH,
White-mantled PEACE with olive-wand,
Young JOY, and diamond-ſceptred WEALTH,
Blithe PLENTY with her loaded horn,
With SCIENCE bright ey'd as the morn,
In Britain, which for ages paſt
Has been thy choiceſt darling care,
Who mad'ſt her wiſe, and ſtrong, and fair,
May thy beſt bleſſings ever laſt.
For thee the pining pris'ner mourns,
Depriv'd of food, of mirth, of light;
For thee pale ſlaves to galleys chain'd,
That ply tough oars from morn to night;
[13] Thee the proud Sultan's beauteous train,
By eunuchs guarded, weep in vain,
Tearing the roſes from their locks;
And Guinea's captive kings lament,
By chriſtian lords to labour ſent,
Whipt like the dull, unfeeling ox.
Inſpir'd by thee, deaf to ſond nature's cries,
Stern BRUTUS, when Rome's genius loudly call'd,
Gave her the matchleſs filial ſacrifice,
Unable to behold her power enthrall'd!
And he of later age, but equal fame,
Dar'd ſtab the tyrant, tho' he lov'd the friend;
How burnt the †Spartan with warm patriot-flame,
In thy great cauſe his valorous life to end!
How burſt GUSTAVUS from the Swediſh mine!
Like light from chaos dark, eternally to ſhine.
[14]
When heav'n to all thy joys beſtows,
And graves upon our hearts—BE FREE—
Shall coward man thoſe joys reſign,
And dare reverſe this great decree?
Submit him to ſome idol-king,
Some ſelfiſh, paſſion-guided thing,
Abhorring man, by man abhorr'd,
Around whoſe throne ſtands trembling DOUBT,
Whoſe jealous eyes ſtill rowl about,
And MURDER with his reeking ſword?
Where trampling TYRANNY with FATE,
And black REVENGE gigantic goes,
Hark, how the dying infants ſhriek,
How hopeleſs age is ſunk in woes!
Fly, mortals, from that fated land,
Tho' rivers rowl o'er golden ſand;
[15] Tho' birds in ſhades of caſſia ſing,
Harveſts and fruits ſpontaneous riſe,
No ſtorms diſturb the ſmiling ſkies,
And each ſoft breeze rich odours bring.
BRITANNIA, watch!—remember peerleſs ROME,
Her high-tow'r'd head daſh'd meanly to the ground;
Remember, freedom's guardian, GRECIA'S doom,
Whom weeping the deſpotic Turk has bound:
May ne'er thy oak-crown'd hills, rich meads & downs,
(Fame, virtue, courage, property, forgot)
Thy peaceful villages, and buſy towns,
Be doom'd ſome death-diſpenſing tyrant's lot;
On deep foundations may thy freedom ſtand,
Long as the ſurge ſhall laſh thy ſea-encircled land.
ODE III.
To HEALTH.
Written on a Recovery from the SMALL-POX.
[16]O Whether with laborious clowns
In meads and woods thou lov'ſt to dwell,
In noiſy merchant-crouded towns,
Or in the temperate Brachman's cell;
Who from the meads of Ganges' fruitful flood,
Wet with ſweet dews collects his flowery food;
In Bath or in Montpellier's plains,
Or rich Bermud s' balmy iſle,
Or the cold North, whoſe fur-clad ſwains
Ne'er ſaw the purple Autumn ſmile,
Who over alps of ſnow, and deſarts drear,
By twinkling ſtar-light drive the flying deer;
[17]
O lovely queen of mirth and eaſe,
Whom abſent, beauty, banquets, wine,
Wit, muſic, pomp, nor ſcience pleaſe,
And kings on ivory couches pine,
Nature's kind nurſe, to whom by gracious heav'n
To ſooth the pangs of toilſome life 'tis giv'n;
To aid a languid wretch repair,
Let pale-ey'd Grief thy preſence fly,
The reſtleſs demon gloomy Care,
And meagre Melancholy die;
Drive to ſome lonely rock the giant Pain,
And bind him howling with a triple chain!
O come, reſtore my aking ſight,
Yet let me not on LAURA gaze,
Soon muſt I quit that dear delight,
O'erpower'd by Beauty's piercing rays;
Support my feeble feet, and largely ſhed
Thy oil of gladneſs on my fainting head:
[18]
How nearly had my ſpirit paſt,
Till ſtopt by METCALF'S ſkilful hand,
To Death's dark regions wide and waſt,
And the black river's mournful ſtrand;
Or to thoſe vales of joy, and meadows bleſt,
Where ſages, heroes, patriots, poets reſt;
Where MARO and MUSAEUS ſit
Liſt'ning to MILTON'S loftier ſong,
With ſacred ſilent wonder ſmit;
While, monarch of the tuneful throng,
HOMER in rapture throws his trumpet down,
And to the Briton gives his amaranthine crown.
ODE IV.
To SUPERSTITION.
[19]HENCE to ſome Convent's gloomy iſles,
Where chearful daylight never ſmiles,
Tyrant, from Albion haſte, to ſlaviſh Rome;
There by dim tapers' livid light,
At the ſtill ſolemn hours of night,
In penſive muſings walk o'er many a ſounding tomb.
Thy clanking chains, thy crimſon ſteel,
Thy venom'd darts, and barbarous wheel,
Malignant fiend, bear from this iſle away,
Nor dare in error's fetters bind
One active, ſreeborn, Britiſh mind,
That ſtrongly ſtrives to ſpring indignant from thy ſway.
[20]
Thou bad'ſt grim MOLOCH'S frowning prieſt
Snatch ſcreaming infants from the breaſt,
Regardleſs of the frantick mother's woes;
Thou led'ſt the ruthleſs ſons of Spain
To wond'ring India's golden plain,
From deluges of blood where tenfold harveſts roſe.
But lo! how ſwiftly art thou fled,
When REASON lifts his radiant head;
When his reſounding, awful voice they hear,
Blind IGNORANCE thy doating ſire,
Thy daughter, trembling FEAR, retire;
And all thy ghaſtly train of terrors diſappear.
So by the Magi hail'd from far,
When PHOEBUS mounts his early car,
The ſhrieking ghoſts to their dark charnels flock;
The full-gorg'd wolves retreat, no more
The prowling lioneſſes roar,
But haſten with their prey to ſome deep-cavern'd rock.
[21]
Hail then, ye friends of Reaſon hail,
Ye foes to Myſt'ry's odious veil,
To Truth's high temple guide my ſteps aright,
Where CLARKE and WOOLASTON reſide,
With LOCKE and NEWTON by their ſide,
While PLATO ſits above enthron'd in endleſs light.
ODE V.
To a GENTLEMAN upon his Travels thro' Italy.
[22]WHILE I with fond officious care,
For you my chorded ſhell prepare,
And not unmindful frame an humble lay,
Where ſhall this verſe my CYNNTHIO find,
What ſcene of art now charms your mind,
Say, on what ſacred ſpot of Roman ground you ſtray?
Perhaps you cull each valley's bloom,
To ſtrew o'er VIRGIL'S laurell'd tomb,
Whence oft at midnight echoing voices ſound,
For at that hour of ſilence, there
The ſhades of ancient bards repair,
To join in choral ſong his hallow'd urn around:
[23]
Or wander in the cooling ſhade
Of Sabine bow'rs where HORACE ſtray'd,
And oft' repeat in eager thought elate,
(As round in claſſic ſearch you trace
With curious eye the pleaſing place)
[...] This fount he lov'd, and there beneath that oak he ſate.
How longs my raptur'd breaſt with you
Great RAPHAEL'S magic ſtrokes to view,
To whoſe bleſt hand each charm the Graces gave!
Whence each fair form with beauty glows
Like that of VENUS when ſhe roſe,
Naked in bluſhing charms from OCEAN'S hoary wave.
As oft by roving fancy led
To ſmooth CLITUMNUS' banks you tread,
What awful thoughts his fabled waters raiſe!
While the low-thoughted ſwain, whoſe flock
Grazes around, from ſome ſteep rock
With vulgar diſregard his mazy courſe ſurveys.
[24]
Now thro' the ruin'd domes my Muſe
Your ſteps with eager flight purſues,
That their cleft piles on TYBER'S plains preſent,
Among whoſe hollow-winding cells
Forlorn and wild ROME'S GENIUS dwells,
His golden ſceptre broke, and purple mantle rent.
Oft to thoſe moſſy mould'ring walls,
Thoſe caverns dark, and ſilent halls,
Let me repair by midnight's paly fires,
There muſe on Empire's fallen ſtate,
And frail Ambition's hapleſs fate,
While more than mortal thoughts the ſolemn ſcene inſpires.
What luſt of power from the cold North
Could tempt thoſe Vandal-robbers ſorth,
Fair ITALY, thy vine-clad vales to waſt?
Whoſe hands profane, with hoſtile blade,
Thy ſtory'd temples dar'd invade,
And all thy Parian ſeats of Attic art defac'd!
[25]
They, weeping ART in fetters bound,
And gor'd her breaſt with many a wound,
And veil'd her charms in clouds of thickeſt night;
Sad POESY, much-injur'd maid,
They drove to ſome dim convent's ſhade,
And quench'd in gloomy miſt her lamp's reſplendent light.
There long ſhe wept to darkneſs doom'd,
'Till COSMO'S hand her light relum'd,
That once again in lofty TASSO ſhone,
Since has ſweet SPENSER caught her fire,
She breath'd once more in MILTON'S lyre,
And warm'd the ſoul divine of SHAKESPEAR, fancy's ſon.
Nor ſhe, mild queen, will ceaſe to ſmile
On her BRITANNIA'S much-lov'd iſle,
Where theſe her beſt, her favourite Three were born,
While †THERON warbles Grecian ſtrains,
Or poliſh'd DODINGTON remains,
The drooping train of art [...] to cheriſh and adorn.
ODE VI.
Againſt DESPAIR.
[26]FArewell thou dimpled cherub JOY,
Thou roſe-crown'd, ever-ſmiling boy,
Wont thy ſiſter HOPE to lead
To dance along the primroſe mead!
No more, bereft of happy hours,
I ſeek thy lute-reſounding bow'rs,
But to yon' ruin'd tower repair,
To meet the god of Groans, DESPAIR;
Who, on that ivy-darken'd ground,
Still takes at eve his ſilent round,
Or ſits yon' new-made grave beſide,
Where lies a frantic ſuicide:
[27] While lab'ring ſighs my heart-ſtrings break,
Thus to the ſullen power I ſpeak:
" Haſte with thy poiſon'd dagger, haſte,
" To pierce this ſorrow-laden breaſt!
" Or lead me at the dead of night,
" To ſome ſea-beat mountain's height,
" Whence with headlong haſte I'll leap
" To the dark boſom of the deep;
" Or ſhew me far from human eye,
" Some cave to muſe in, ſtarve and die,
" No weeping friend or brother near,
" My laſt fond, fault'ring words to hear.
'Twas thus with weights of woes oppreſt,
I ſought to eaſe my bruiſed breaſt;
When ſtraight more gloomy grew the ſhade,
And lo! a tall majeſtic maid!
Her limbs, not delicately fair,
Robuſt, and of a martial air;
[28] She bore of ſteel a poliſh'd ſhield,
Where highly-ſculptur'd I beheld
†Th' Athenian martyr ſmiling ſtand,
The baleful goblet in his hand;
Sparkled her eyes with lively flame,
And PATIENCE was the Seraph's name;
Sternly ſhe look'd, and ſtern began—
" Thy ſorrows ceaſe, complaining man,
" Rouze thy weak ſoul, appeaſe thy moan,
" Soon are the clouds of ſadneſs gone;
" Tho' now in Grief's dark groves you walk,
" Where grieſly fiends around you ſtalk,
" Beyond, a bliſsful city lies,
" Far from whoſe gates each anguiſh flies:
" Take thou this ſhield, which once of yore
" ULYSSES and ALCIDES wore,
" And which in later days I gave
" To REGULUS and RALEIGH brave,
[29] " In exile or in dungeon drear
" Their mighty minds could baniſh fear;
" Thy heart no tenfold woes ſhall feel,
" 'Twas VIRTUE temper'd the rough ſteel,
" And, by her heavenly fingers wrought,
" To me the precious preſent brought.
ODE VII.
To EVENING.
[30]HAIL meek-ey'd maiden, clad in ſober grey,
Whoſe ſoft approach the weary woodman loves,
As homeward bent to kiſs his prattling babes,
He jocund whiſtles thro' the twilight groves.
When PHOEBUS ſinks behind the gilded hills,
You lightly o'er the miſty meadows walk,
The drooping daiſies bathe in honey-dews,
And nurſe the nodding violet's ſlender ſtalk:
The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmoſt bowers and cooling caverns ran,
Return to trip in wanton evening-dance,
Old SYLVAN too returns, and laughing PAN.
[31]
To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light ſkims the ſwallow o'er the wat'ry ſcene,
And from the ſheep-cotes, and freſh-furrow'd field,
Stout plowmen meet to wreſtle on the green.
The ſwain that artleſs ſings on yonder rock,
His ſupping ſheep and lengthening ſhadow ſpies,
Pleas'd with the cool, the calm, refreſhful hour,
And with hoarſe hummings of unnumber'd flies.
Now every paſſion ſleeps; deſponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-reſtleſs Pride,
An holy calm creeps o'er my peaceful ſoul,
Anger and mad Ambition's ſtorms ſubſide.
O modeſt EVENING, oft' let me appear
A wandering votary in thy penſive train,
Liſt'ning to every wildly-warbling throat
That fills with farewell notes the dark'ning plain.
ODE VIII.
To a FOUNTAIN.
Imitated from HORACE, Ode XIII, Book III.
[32]YE waves, that guſhing fall with pureſt ſtream,
Blanduſian Fount! to whom the products ſweet
Of richeſt vines belong,
And faireſt flowers of ſpring;
To thee, a choſen victim will I ſlay,
A kid, who glowing in laſcivious youth
Juſt blooms with budding horn,
And with vain thought elate
Yet deſtines future war: but ah! too ſoon
His reeking blood with crimſon ſhall enrich
Thy pure tranſlucent flood,
And tinge thy cryſtal clear.
[33]Thy ſweet receſs the ſun in mid-day hour
Can ne'er invade, thy ſtreams the labour'd ox
Refreſh with cooling draught,
And glad the wand'ring herds.
Thy name ſhall ſhine with endleſs honors grac'd,
While on my ſhell I ſing the nodding oak,
That o'er thy cavern deep
Waves his embowering head.
ODE IX.
To the NIGHTINGALE.
[34]O Thou, that to the moonlight vale
Warbleſt oft thy plaintive tale,
What time the village-murmurs ceaſe,
And the ſtill eve is huſh'd to peace,
When now no buſy ſound is heard
CONTEMPLATION'S favourite bird!
Chauntreſs of night, whoſe amorous ſong
Firſt heard the tufted groves among,
Warns wanton MABBA to begin
Her revels on the circled green,
Whene'er by MEDITATION led
I nightly ſeek ſome diſtant mead;
[35]
A ſhort repoſe of cares to find,
And ſooth my love-diſtracted mind,
O fail not then, ſweet PHILOMEL,
Thy ſadly-warbled woes to tell;
In ſympathetic numbers join
Thy pangs of luckleſs love with mine!
So may no ſwain's rude hand infeſt
Thy tender young, and rob thy neſt;
Nor ruthleſs fowler's guileful ſnare
Lure thee to leave the fields of air,
No more to viſit vale or ſhade,
Some barbarous virgin's captive made.
ODE X.
On the SPRING.
To a LADY.
[36]LO! SPRING array'd in primroſe-colour'd robe,
Freſh beauties ſheds on each enliven'd ſcene,
With ſhow'rs and ſunſhine chears the ſmiling globe,
And mantles hill and vale in glowing green.
All nature feels her vital heat around,
The pregnant glebe now burſts with foodful grain,
With kindly warmth ſhe opes the frozen ground,
And with new life informs the teeming plain.
[37]
She calls the fiſhes from their ouzy beds,
And animates the deep with genial love,
She bids the herds bound ſportive o'er the meads,
And with glad ſongs awakes the joyous grove.
No more the glaring tiger roams for prey,
All-powerful Love ſubdues his ſavage ſoul,
To find his ſpotted mate he darts away,
While gentler thoughts the thirſt of blood controul.
But ah! while all is warmth and ſoft deſire,
While all around SPRING'S chearful influence own,
You feel not, AMORET, her quickening fire,
To SPRING'S kind heat of all a foe alone!
ODE XI.
To a LADY who hates the Country.
[38]NOW SUMMER, daughter of the Sun,
O'er the gay fields comes dancing on,
And earth o'erflows with joys;
Too long in routs and drawing-rooms,
The taſteleſs hours my fair conſumes
'Midſt folly, flattery, noiſe.
Come hear mild ZEPHYR bid the roſe
Her balmy-breathing buds diſcloſe,
Come hear the falling rill,
Obſerve the honey-loaded bee,
The beech-embower'd cottage ſee,
Beſide yon' ſloping hill.
[39]
By health awoke at early morn,
We'll bruſh ſweet dews from every thorn,
And help unpen the fold;
Hence to yon' hollow oak we'll ſtray,
Where dwelt, as village-fables ſay,
An holy DRUID old.
Come wildly rove thro' deſart dales,
To liſten how lone nightingales
In liquid lays complain;
Adieu the tender, thrilling note,
That pants in MONTICELLI'S throat,
And HANDEL'S ſtronger ſtrain.
" Inſipid pleaſures theſe! you cry,
" Muſt I from dear Aſſemblies fly,
" To ſee rude peaſants toil?
" For Opera's liſten to a bird?
" Shall †SYDNEY'S fables be preferr'd
" To my ſagacious *HOYLE?
[40]
O falſly fond of what ſeems great,
Of purple pomp and robes of ſtate,
And all life's tinſel glare!
Rather with humble violets bind,
Or give to wanton in the wind
Your length of ſable hair.
Soon as you reach the rural ſhade,
Will MIRTH, the ſprightly mountain-maid,
Your days and nights attend,
She'll bring fantaſtic SPORT and SONG,
Nor CUPID will be abſent long,
Your true ally and friend.
ODE XII.
On the Death of [...]
[41]NO more of mirth and rural joys,
The gay deſcription quickly cloys,
In melting numbers, ſadly ſlow,
I tune my alter'd ſtrings to woe;
Attend, MELPOMENE, and with thee bring
Thy tragic lute, EUPHRANOR'S death to ſing.
Fond wilt thou be his name to praiſe,
For oft' thou heard'ſt his ſkilful lays;
ISIS for him ſoft tears has ſhed,
She plac'd her ivy on his head;
Choſe him, ſtrict judge, to rule with ſteddy reigns
The vigorous fancies of her liſtening ſwains.
[42]
With genius, wit, and ſcience bleſt,
Unſhaken Honour arm'd his breaſt,
Bade him, with virtuous courage wiſe,
Malignant FORTUNE'S darts deſpiſe;
Him, ev'n black ENVY'S venom'd tongues commend,
As Scholar, Paſtor, Huſband, Father, Friend.
For ever ſacred, ever dear,
O much-lov'd ſhade accept this tear;
Each night indulging pious woe,
Freſh roſes on thy tomb I ſtrew,
And wiſh for tender SPENSER'S moving verſe,
Warbled in broken ſobs o'er SYDNEY'S herſe,
Let me to that deep cave reſort,
Where SORROW keeps her ſilent court,
For ever wringing her pale hands,
While dumb MISFORTUNE near her ſtands,
With downcaſt eyes the CARES around her wait,
And PITY ſobbing ſits before the gate.
[43]
Thus ſtretch'd upon his grave I ſung,
When ſtrait my ears with murmur rung,
A diſtant, deaf, and hollow ſound
Was heard in ſolemn whiſpers round—
" Weep not for me, embath'd in bliſs above,
" In the bright kingdoms bleſt of joy and love.
ODE XIII.
On SHOOTING.
[44]NYMPHS of the foreſts, that young oaks protect
From noxious blaſts, and the blue thunder's dart,
O how ſecurely might ye dwell
In Britain's peaceful ſhades
Far from grim wolves, or tiger's midnight roar,
Or crimſon-creſted ſerpent's hungry hiſs,
But that our ſavage ſwains pollute
With murder your retreats!
How oft' your birds have undeſerving bled,
Linnet, or warbling thruſh, or moaning dove,
Pleaſant with gayly-gliſt'ring wings,
Or early-mounting lark!
[45]While in ſweet converſe in a round you ſit
On the green turf, or in the woodbine-bower,
If chance the thund'ring Gun be heard,
To grots and caves ye run,
Fearful as when LODONA fled from PAN,
Or DAPHNE panting from enamour'd SOL,
Or fair SABRINA to the flood
Her ſnowy beauties gave:
When will dread Man his Tyrannies forego,
When ceaſe to bathe his barbarous hands in blood,
His ſubjects helpleſs, harmleſs, weak,
Delighting to deſtroy?
More pleaſant far to ſhield their tender young
From churliſh ſwains, that violate their neſts,
And, wand'ring morn or eve, to hear
Their welcome to the Spring.
ODE XIV.
To SOLITUDE.
[46]THOU, that at deep dead of night
Walk'ſt forth beneath the pale moon's light,
In robe of flowing black array'd,
While cypreſs-leaves thy brows o'erſhade;
Liſt'ning to the crowing cock,
And the diſtant-ſounding clock;
Or ſitting in thy cavern low,
Do'ſt hear the bleak winds loudly blow,
Or the hoarſe death-boding owl,
Or village maiſtiff's wakeful howl,
While through thy melancholy room
A dim lamp caſts an awful gloom;
Thou, that on the meadow green,
Or daiſy'd upland art not ſeen,
[47] But wand'ring by the duſky nooks,
And the penſive-falling brooks,
Or near ſome rugged, herbleſs rock,
Where no ſhepherd keeps his flock!
Muſing maid, to thee I come,
Hating the tradeful city's hum;
O let me calmly dwell with thee,
From noiſy mirth and bus'neſs free,
With meditation ſeek the ſkies,
This folly-fetter'd world deſpiſe!
FINIS.
Notes
†
Leonidas.
†
The author of the Pleaſures of Imagination.
†
Socrates.
†
Arcadia.
*
Alluding to thoſe Ladies who have left their Novels and Romances for the profound ſtudy of Mr. HOYLE'S book on Whiſt.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5100 Odes on various subjects By Joseph Warton. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5A32-7