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THE POETICAL WORKS OF MR. WILLIAM COLLINS. WITH MEMOIRS Of the AUTHOR; AND OBSERVATIONS ON His GENIUS and WRITINGS.

BY J. LANGHORNE.

son pure i noſtri figli
Propagini celeſti:
Non ſpegnerà 'il ſuo ſeme.
GUAR.

LONDON: Printed for T. BECKET and P. A. DEHONDT, at Tully's Head, near Surry Street in the Strand. MDCCLXV.

CONTENTS.

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  • MEMOIRS of the Author, Page 1
  • Oriental Eclogues.
    • Eclogue I. 11
    • Eclogue II. 14
    • Eclogue III. 18
    • Eclogue IV. 21
  • Odes deſcriptive and allegorical.
    • Ode to Pity, 27
    • Ode to Fear, 29
    • Ode to Simplicity, 32
    • Ode on the poetical Character, 35
    • Ode, written in the Year 1746, 38
    • Ode to Mercy, 39
    • Ode to Liberty, 41
    • Ode to a Lady, on the Death of Colonel Charles Roſs in the Action at Fontenoy. Written in May 1745, 48
    • Ode to Evening, 51
    • Ode to Peace, 54
    • The Manners. An Ode. 55
    • The Paſſions. An Ode ſor Muſic, 59
  • An Epiſtle to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakeſpear's Works, 64
  • Dirge in Cymbeline, 71
  • Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomſon, 73.
  • [] General Obſervations on the Oriental Eclogues, 79
  • Obſervations on Eclogue I. 85
  • Obſervations on Eclogue II. 87
  • Obſervations on Eclogue III. 92
  • Obſervations on Eclogue IV. 93
  • General Obſervations on the Odes deſcriptive and allegorical, 99
  • Obſervations on the Ode to Pity, 105
  • Obſervations on the Ode to Fear, 107
  • Obſervations on the Ode to Simplicity, 111
  • Obſervations on the Ode on the poetical Character, 113
  • Obſervations on the Ode, written in the Year 1746 115
  • Obſervations on the Ode to Mercy, ibid.
  • Obſervations on the Ode to Liberty, 116
  • Obſervations on the Ode, to a Lady, on the Death of Colonel Charles Roſs in the Action of Fontenoy. Written in May 1745, 120
  • Obſervations on the Ode to Evening, 121
  • Obſervations on the The manners. An Ode, 125
  • Obſervations on the The Paſſions. An Ode for Muſic, 128
  • Obſervations on the An Epiſtle to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakeſpear's works 131
  • Obſervations on the Dirge in Cymbeline, ibid.
  • Obſervations on the Ode on the death of Mr. Thomſon, ibid.

MEMOIRS of the AUTHOR.

[i]

THE enthuſiaſm of poetry, like that of religion, has frequently a powerful influence on the conduct of life, and either throws it into the retreat of uniform obſcurity, or marks it with irregularities that lead to miſery and diſquiet. The gifts of imagination bring the heavieſt taſk upon the vigilance of reaſon; and to bear thoſe faculties with unerring rectitude, or invariable propriety, requires a degree of firmneſs and of cool attention which doth not always attend the higher gifts of the mind. Yet, difficult as nature herſelf ſeems to have rendered the taſk of regularity to genius, it is the ſupreme conſolation of dulneſs and folly, to point with gothic triumph to theſe exceſſes, which are the overflowings of faculties they never enjoyed. Perfectly unconſcious that they are indebted to their ſtupidity for the conſiſtency of their conduct, they plume themſelves on an imaginary virtue, which has its origin in what is really their diſgrace.—Let ſuch, if ſuch dare approach the ſhrine of COLLINS, withdraw to a reſpectful diſtance, and, ſhould they [ii] behold the ruins of genius, or the weakneſs of an exalted mind, let them be taught to lament that nature has left the nobleſt of their works imperfect.

OF ſuch men of genius as have borne no public character, it ſeldom happens that any memoirs can be collected, of conſequence enough to be recorded by the biographer. If their lives paſs in obſcurity, they are generally too uniform to engage our attention; if they cultivate and obtain popularity, envy and malignity will mingle their poiſon with the draughts of praiſe; and through the induſtry of thoſe unwearied fiends, their reputation will be ſo chequered, and their characters ſo diſguiſed, that it ſhall become difficult for the hiſtorian to ſeparate truth from falſhood.

OF our exalted poet, whoſe life, though far from being popular, did not altogether paſs in privacy, we meet with few other accounts than ſuch as the life of every man will afford, viz. when he was born, where he was educated, and where he died. Yet even theſe ſimple memoirs of the man will not be unacceptable to thoſe who admire the poet: for we never receive pleaſure without a deſire to be acquainted with the ſource from whence it ſprings; a ſpecies of curioſity, which, as it ſeems [iii] to be inſtinctive, was, probably, given us for the noble end of gratitude; and, finally, to elevate the enquiries of the mind to that fountain of perfection from which all human excellence is derived.

CHICHESTER, a city in Suſſex, had the honour of giving birth to the author of the following poems, about the year 1721. His father, who was a reputable tradeſman in that city, intended him for the ſervice of the church; and with this view, in the year 1733, he was admitted a ſcholar of that illuſtrious ſeminary of genius and learning, Wincheſter college, where ſo many diſtinguiſhed men of letters, ſo many excellent poets have received their claſſical education. Here he had the good fortune to continue ſeven years under the care of the very learned Dr. Burton; and at the age of nineteen, in the year 1740, he had merit ſufficient to procure a diſtinguiſhed place in the liſt of thoſe ſcholars, who are elected, upon the foundation of Wincheſter, to New College in Oxford. But as there were then no vacancies in that ſociety, he was admitted a commoner of Queen's College in the ſame univerſity; where he continued till July 1741, when he was elected a demy of Magdalen College. During his reſidence at Queen's, he was at once diſtinguiſhed for genius and indolence; his [iv] exerciſes, when he could be prevailed upon to write, bearing the viſible characteriſtics of both. This remiſs and inattentive habit might probably ariſe, in ſome meaſure, from diſappointment: he had, no doubt, indulged very high ideas of the academical mode of education, and when he found ſcience within the fetters of logic and of Ariſtotle, it was no wonder if he abated of his diligence to ſcek her where the ſearch was attended with artificial perplexities, and where, at laſt, the purſuer would graſp the ſhadow for the ſubſtance.

WHILE he was at Magdalen College, he applied himſelf chiefly to the cultivation of poetry, and wrote the epiſtle to Sir Thomas Hanmer, and the Oriental Eclogues, which, in the year 1742, were publiſhed under the title of Perſian Eclogues.—The ſucceſs of theſe poems was far from being equal to their merit; but to a novice in the purſuit of fame, the leaſt encouragement is ſufficient: if he does not at once acquire that reputation to which his merit intitles him, he embraces the encomiums of the few, forgives the many, and intends to open their eyes to the ſtriking beauties of his next Publication.

WITH proſpects ſuch as theſe, probably, Mr. Collins indulged his fancy, when, in the year 1743, [v] after having taken the degree of a batchelor of arts, he left the univerſity, and removed to London.

To a man of ſmall fortune, a liberal ſpirit, and uncertain dependencies, the metropolis is a very dangerous place. Mr. Collins had not been long in town before he became an inſtance of the truth of this obſervation. His pecuniary reſources were exhauſted, and to reſtore them by the exertion of genius and learning, though he wanted not the power, he had neither ſteadineſs nor induſtry. His neceſſities, indeed, ſometimes carried him as far as a ſcheme, or a title page for a book; but, whether it were the power of diſſipation, or the genius of repoſe that interfered, he could proceed no farther. Several books were projected, which he was very able to execute; and he became, in idea, an hiſtorian, a critic, and a dramatic poet by turns. At one time he determined to write an hiſtory of the revival of Letters; at another to tranſlate and comment upon Ariſtotle's Poetics; then he turned his thoughts to the Drama, and proceeded ſo far towards a tragedy—as to become acquainted with the manager.

UNDER this unaccountable diſſipation, he ſuffered the greateſt inconveniencies. Day ſucceeded day, for the ſupport of which he had made no proviſion, and in which he was to ſubſiſt either by the [vi] long-repeated contributions of a friend, or the generoſity of a caſual acquaintance.—Yet indolence triumphed at once over want and ſhame; and neither the anxieties of poverty, nor the heart-burning of dependance had power to animate reſolution to perſeverance.

As there is a degree of depravity into which if a man falls, he becomes incapable of attending to any of the ordinary means that recall men to virtue, ſo there are ſome circumſtances of indigence ſo extremely degrading, that they deſtroy the influences of ſhame itſelf; and moſt ſpirits are apt to ſink, under their oppreſſion, into a ſullen and unambitious deſpondence.

HOWEVER this might be with regard to Mr. Collins, we find that, in the year 1746, he had ſpirit and reſolution enough to publiſh his Odes deſcriptive and allegorical. Mr. MILLAR, a bookſeller in the Strand, and a favourer of genius, when once it has made its way to ſame, publiſhed them ON THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT.—He happened, indeed, to be in the right not to publiſh them on his own; for the ſale was by no means ſucceſsful: and hence it was that the author, conceiving a juſt indignation againſt a blind and taſteleſs age, burnt the remaining copies with his own hands.

[vii] ALLEGORICAL and abſtracted poetry was above the taſte of thoſe times, as much, or more than it is of the preſent. It is in the lower walks, the plain and practical paths of the muſes only that the generality of men can be entertained. The higher efforts of imagination are above their capacity; and it is no wonder therefore, if the Odes deſcriptive and allegorical met with few admirers.

UNDER theſe circumſtances, ſo mortifying to every juſt expectation, when neither his wants were relieved, nor his reputation extended, he found ſome conſolation in changing the ſcene, and viſiting his uncle, colonel MARTIN, who was, at that time, with our army in Flanders. Soon after his arrival, the colonel died, and left him a conſiderable fortune.

HERE, then, we ſhould hope to behold him happy; poſſeſſed of independence, and removed from every ſcene, and every monument of his former miſery. But, fortune had delayed her favours till they were not worth receiving. His faculties had been ſo long harraſſed by anxiety, diſſipation, and diſtreſs, that he fell into a nervous diſorder, which brought with it an unconquerable depreſſion of ſpirits, and at length reduced the fineſt underſtanding to the moſt deplorable childiſhneſs. In the firſt [viii] ſtages of his diſorder he attempted to relieve himſelf by travel, and paſſed into France; but the growing malady obliged him to return; and having continued, with ſhort intervals* in this pitiable ſtate till the year 1756, he died in the arms of a ſiſter at Chicheſter.

MR. Collins was, in ſtature, ſomewhat above the middle ſize; of a brown complexion, keen, expreſſive eyes, and a ſixed, ſedate aſpect, which, from intenſe thinking, had contracted an habitual frown. His proſiciency in letters was greater than could have been expected from his years. He was ſkilled in the learned languages, and acquainted with the Italian, French, and Spaniſh.—It is obſervable that none of his poems bear the marks of an amorous diſpoſition, and that he is one of thoſe few poets, who have ſailed to Delphi, without touching at Cythera. The alluſions of this kind that appear in his Oriental Eclogues were indiſpenſable in that ſpecies of poetry; and it is very remarkable that in his Paſſions, an ode for muſic, love is omitted, though it ſhould have made a principal figure there.

[]

ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I.
SELIM; or, the SHEPHERD'S MORAL.

[11]
SCENE, a valley near BAGDAT.
Time, the Morning.
YE Perſian maids, attend your poet's lays,
And hear how ſhepherds paſs their golden days.
Not all are bleſt, whom fortune's hand ſuſtains
With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the plains:
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell;
'Tis virtue makes the bliſs, where'er we dwell.
Thus Selim ſung, by ſacred truth inſpir'd;
Nor praiſe, but ſuch as truth beſtow'd deſir'd:
Wiſe in himſelf, his meaning ſongs conveyed
Informing morals to the ſhepherd maid;
Or taught the ſwains that ſureſt bliſs to find,
What groves nor ſtreams beſtow, a virtuous mind
When ſweet and bluſhing, like a virgin bride,
The radiant morn reſum'd her orient pride,
When wanton gales along the valleys play,
Breathe on each flower, and bear their ſweets away:
By Tigris' wand'ring waves he ſat, and ſung
This uſeful leſſon ſor the fair and young.
Ye Perſian dames, he ſaid, to you belong,
Well may they pleaſe, the morals of my ſong:
[12] No fairer maids, I truſt than you are found,
Grac'd with ſoft arts, the peopled world around!
The morn that lights you, to your loves ſupplies
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:
For you thoſe flowers her fragrant hand beſtow,
And yours the love that kings delight to know.
Yet think not theſe, all beauteous as they are,
The beſt kind bleſſings heaven can grant the fair!
Who truſt alone in beauty's feeble ray,
Boaſt but the worth Baſſora's pearls diſplay;
Drawn from the deep we own their ſurface bright,
But, dark within, they drink no luſtrous light:
Such are the maids, and ſuch the charms they boaſt,
By ſenſe unaided, or to virtue loſt.
Self-flattering ſex! your hearts believe in vain
That love ſhall blind, when once he fires the ſwain;
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,
As ſpots on ermin beautify the ſkin:
Who ſeeks ſecure to rule, be firſt her care
Each ſofter virtue that adorns the fair;
Each tender paſſion man delights to find,
The lov'd perfections of a female mind!
Bleſt were the days, when Wiſdom held her reign,
And ſhepherds ſought her on the ſilent plain;
With Truth ſhe wedded in the ſecret grove,
Immortal Truth, and daughters bleſs'd their love.
O haſte, fair maids! ye Virtues come away,
Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way!
[13] The balmy ſhrub, for you ſhall love our ſhore,
By Ind excell'd or Araby no more.
Loſt to our fields, for ſo the fates ordain,
The dear deſerters ſhall return again.
Come thou, whoſe thoughts as limpid ſprings are clear,
To lead the train, ſweet Modeſty appear:
Here make thy court amidſt our rural ſcene,
And ſhepherd-girls ſhall own thee for their queen.
With thee be Chaſtity, of all afraid,
Diſtruſting all, a wiſe ſuſpicious maid;
But man the moſt—not more the mountain doe
Holds the ſwift falcon for her deadly foe.
Cold is her breaſt, like flowers that drink the dew;
A ſilken veil conceals her from the view.
No wild deſires amidſt thy train be known,
But Faith, whoſe heart is fix'd on one alone:
Dcſponding Meekneſs, with her down-caſt eyes,
And friendly Pity, full of tender ſighs;
And Love the laſt: by theſe your hearts approve,
Theſe are the virtues that muſt lead to love.
Thus ſung the ſwain; and ancient legends ſay,
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along.
The ſhepherds lov'd, and Selim bleſs'd his ſong.

ECLOGUE II.
HASSAN; or, the CAMEL-DRIVER.

[14]
SCENE, the DESERT.
Time, Mid-day.
IN ſilent horror o'er the boundleſs waſte
The driver Haſſan with his camels paſt:
One cruiſe of water on his back he bore,
And his light ſcrip contain'd a ſcanty ſtore;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his ſhaded face from ſcorching ſand.
The ſultry ſun had gain'd the middle ſky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;
The beaſts, with pain, their duſty way purſue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!
With deſperate ſorrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice ſigh'd, thrice ſtruck his breaſt, and thus began:
"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,
"When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Ah! little thought I of the blaſting wind,
The thirſt or pinching hunger that I find!
Bethink thee, Haſſan, where ſhall Thirſt aſſuage,
When fails this cruiſe, his unrelenting rage?
[15] Soon ſhall this ſcrip its precious load reſign;
Then what but tears and hunger ſhall be thine?
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal ſhare!
Here, where no ſprings in murmurs break away,
Or moſs-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more bleſt, or verdant vales beſtow:
Here rocks alone, and taſteleſs ſands are found,
And faint and ſickly winds for ever howl around.
"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,
"When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Curſt be the gold and ſilver which perſuade
Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade!
The lilly peace outſhines the ſilver ſtore,
And life is dearer than the golden ore:
Yet money tempts us o'er the deſert brown,
To every diſtant mart and wealthy town.
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the ſea:
And are we only yet repay'd by thee?
Ah! why was ruin ſo attractive made,
Or why fond man ſo eaſily betray'd?
Why heed we not, while mad we haſte along,
The gentle voice of peace, or pleaſure's ſong?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's ſide,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,
Why think we theſe leſs pleaſing to behold,
Than dreary deſerts, if they lead to gold?
[16]"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,
"When firſt ſrom Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
O ceaſe, my fears!—all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumber'd ſcenes of woe,
What if the lion in his rage I meet!—
Oft in the duſt I view his printed feet:
And fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger rous'd, he ſcours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and ſullen tygers in his train:
Before them death with ſhrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.
"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,
"When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
At that dead hour the ſilent aſp ſhall creep,
If aught of reſt I find, upon my ſleep:
Or ſome ſwoln ſerpent twiſt his ſcales around,
And wake to anguiſh with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wiſe contented poor,
From luſt of wealth, and dread of death ſecure!
They tempt no deſerts, and no griefs they find;
Peace rules the day, where reaſon rules the mind.
"Sad was the hour, and luckleſs was the day,
"When firſt from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
O hapleſs youth! for ſhe thy love hath won,
The tender Zara will be moſt undone!
Big ſwell'd my heart, and own'd the powerful maid.
When faſt ſhe dropt her tears, as thus ſhe ſaid:
[17] "Farewell the youth whom ſighs could not detain,
"Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain!
"Yet as thou go'ſt, may every blaſt ariſe
"Weak and unfelt as theſe rejected ſighs!
"Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'ſt thou ſee,
"No griefs endure, nor weep, falſe youth, like me."
O let me ſafely to the fair return,
Say with a kiſs, ſhe muſt not, ſhall not mourn!
O! let me teach my heart to loſe its fears,
Recall'd by Wiſdom's voice, and Zara's tears.
He ſaid, and call'd on heaven to bleſs the day,
When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.

ECLOGUE III.
ABRA; or, the GEORGIAN SULTANA.

[18]
SCENE, a FOREST.
Time, the Evening.
IN Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are ſeen,
In diſtant view along the level green,
While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,
And the tall foreſts caſt a longer ſhade,
What time 'tis ſweet o'er fields of rice to ſtray,
Or ſcent the breathing maize at ſetting day;
Amidſt the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,
Emyra ſung the pleaſing cares of love.
Of Abra firſt began the tender ſtrain,
Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain:
At morn ſhe came thoſe willing flocks to lead,
Where lilies rear them in the watery mead;
From early dawn the live-long hours ſhe told,
'Till late at ſilent eve ſhe penn'd the fold.
Deep in the grove, beneath the ſecret ſhade,
A various wreath of odorous flowers ſhe made:
* Gay-motley'd pinks and ſweet jonquils ſhe choſe,
The violet blue that on the moſs-bank grows;
[19] All-ſweet to ſenſe, the flaunting roſe was there:
The finiſh'd chaplet well-adorn'd her hair.
Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to ſtray,
By love conducted from the chace away;
Among the vocal vales he heard her ſong,
And ſought the vales and echoing groves among:
At length he found, and woo'd the rural maid;
She knew the monarch, and with ſear obey'd.
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
"And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
The royal lover bore her from the plain;
Yet ſtill her crook and bleating flock remain:
Oft as ſhe went, ſhe backward turn'd her view,
And bad that crook and bleating flock adieu.
Fair happy maid! to other ſcenes remove,
To richer ſcenes of golden power and love!
Go leave the ſimple pipe, and ſhepherd's ſtrain;
With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign.
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
"And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
Yet midſt the blaze of courts ſhe fix'd her love
On the cool fountain, or the ſhady grove;
Still with the ſhepherd's innocence her mind
To the ſweet vale, and flowery mead inclin'd;
And oft as ſpring renew'd the plains with flowers,
Breath'd his ſoft gales, and led the fragrant hours,
With ſure return ſhe ſought the ſylvan ſcene,
The breezy mountains, and the foreſts green.
[20] Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band!
Each bore a crook all-rural in her hand:
Some ſimple lay, of flocks and herds they ſung;
With joy the mountain, and the foreſt rung.
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
"And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
And oft the royal lover left the care
And thorns of ſtate, attendant on the fair;
Oft to the ſhades and low-roof 'd cots retir'd,
Or ſought the vale where firſt his heart was fir'd:
A ruſſet mantle, like a ſwain, he wore,
And thought of crowns and buſy courts no more.
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
"And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
Bleſt was the life, that royal Abbas led:
Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed.
What if in wealth the noble maid excel;
The ſimple ſhepherd girl can love as well.
Let thoſe who rule on Perſia's jewell'd throne,
Be fam'd for love, and gentleſt love alone;
Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of ſair renown,
The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.
O happy days! the maids around her ſay;
O haſte, profuſe of bleſſings, haſte away!
"Be every youth, like royal Abbas, mov'd;
"And every Georgian maid, like Abra, lov'd!

ECLOGUE IV.
AGIB and SECANDER; or, the FUGITIVES.

[21]
SCENE, a Mountain in CIRCASSIA.
Time, Midnight.
IN fair Circaſſia, where, to love inclin'd,
Each ſwain was bleſt, for every maid was kind;
At that ſtill hour, when awful midnight reigns,
And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains;
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
And paſt in radiance thro' the cloudleſs ſky;
Sad o'er the dews, two brother ſhepherds fled,
Where wildering fear and deſperate ſorrow led:
Faſt as they preſt their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravag'd plains, and vallies ſtole away.
Along the mountain's bending ſides they ran,
'Till faint and weak Secander thus began:
SECANDER.
O ſtay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart, O turn thee and ſurvey,
Trace our ſad flight thro' all its length of way!
[22] And firſt review that long extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already paſt with pain!
Yon ragged cliff, whoſe dangerous path we tried!
And laſt this lofty mountain's weary ſide!
AGIB.
Weak as thou art, yet hapleſs muſt thou know
The toils of flight, or ſome ſeverer woe!
Still as I haſte, the Tartar ſhouts behind,
And ſhricks and ſorrows load the ſaddening wind:
In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,
He blaſts our harveſts, and deſorms our land.
Yon citron grove, whence firſt in fear we came,
Droops its fair honours to the conquering flame:
Far fly the ſwains, like us in deep deſpair,
And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.
SECANDER.
Unhappy land, whoſe bleſſings tempt the ſword,
In vain, unheard, thou call'ſt thy Perſian lord!
In vain thou court'ſt him, helpleſs, to thine aid,
To ſhield the ſhepherd and protect the maid:
Far off, in thoughtleſs indolence reſign'd,
Soft dreams of love and pleaſure ſoothe his mind:
'Midſt fair ſultanas loſt in idle joy,
No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.
AGIB.
Yet theſe green hills, in ſummer's ſultry heat,
Have left the monarch oft a cool retreat.
[23] Sweet to the ſight is Zabran's flowery plain,
And once by maids and ſhepherds lov'd in vain!
No more the virgins ſhall delight to rove
By Sargis banks, or Irwan's ſhady grove;
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,
Or breathe the ſweets of Aly's flowery vale:
Fair ſcenes! but, ah! no more with peace poſſeſt,
With eaſe alluring, and with plenty bleſt.
No more the ſhepherd's whitening tents appear,
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;
No more the date, with ſnowy bloſſoms crown'd!
But ruin ſpreads her baleful fires around.
SECANDER.
In vain Circaſſia boaſts her ſpicy groves,
For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves:
In vain ſhe boaſts her faireſt of the fair,
Their eye's blue languiſh, and their golden hair!
Thoſe eyes in tears their fruitleſs grief muſt ſend;
Thoſe hairs the Tartar's cruel hand ſhall rend.
AGIB.
Ye Georgian ſwains that piteous learn from far
Circaſſia's ruin, and the waſte of war;
Some weightier arms than crooks and ſtaffs prepare,
To ſhield your harveſt, and defend your fair:
The Turk and Tartar like deſigns purſue,
Fix'd to deſtroy, and ſtedfaſt to undo.
Wild as his land, in native deſerts bred,
By luſt incited, or by malice led,
[24] The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,
Oft marks with blood and waſting flames the way;
Yet none ſo cruel as the Tartar foe,
To death inur'd, and nurſt in ſcenes of woe.
He ſaid; when loud along the vale was heard
A ſhriller ſhriek, and nearer fires appear'd:
Th' affrighted ſhepherds thro' the dews of night,
Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight.
[]

ODES DESCRIPTIVE and ALLEGORICAL.

ODE TO PITY.

[27]
O Thou, the friend of man aſſign'd,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind.
And charm his frantic woe:
When firſt Diſtreſs, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waſte his deſtin'd ſcene,
His wild unſated foe!
By Pella's Bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy ſky-worn robes of tendereſt blue,
And eyes of dewy light!
But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Iliſſus' diſtant ſide,
Deſerted ſtream, and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy ſtrains,
And Echo, 'midſt thy native plains,
Been ſooth'd by Pity's lute.
There firſt the wren thy myrtles ſhed
On gentleſt Otway's infant head,
[28] To him thy cell was ſhewn;
And while he ſung the female heart,
With youth's ſoft notes unſpoil'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 deſign:
Its ſouthern ſite, its truth compleat
Shall raiſe a wild enthuſiaſt heat,
In all who view the ſhrine.
There Picture's toil ſhall well relate,
How chance, or hard involving fate
O'er mortal bliſs prevail:
The buſkin'd Muſe ſhall near her ſtand,
And ſighing prompt her tender hand,
With each diſaſtrous tale.
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of paſſion 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 TO FEAR.

[29]
THOU, to whom the world unknown
With all its ſhadowy ſhapes is ſhewn;
Who ſeeſt appall'd th' unreal ſcene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between:
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I ſee, I ſee thee near.
I know thy hurried ſtep, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I ſtart, like thee diſorder'd fly;
For, lo what monſters in thy train appear!
Danger, whoſe limbs of giant mold
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who ſtalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidſt the midnight ſtorm,
Or throws him on the ridgy ſteep
Of ſome looſe hanging rock to ſleep:
And with him thouſand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:
And thoſe, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preſide;
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 ghaſtly train can ſee,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

EPODE.

[30]
In earlieſt Greece, to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muſe addreſs'd her infant tongue:
The maids and matrons, on her awful voice
Silent and pale in wild amuſement hung.
Yet he, the Bard* who firſt invok'd thy name,
Diſdain'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 ſteel.
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 ſhar'd the baleful grove?
Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' inceſtuous Queen
Sigh'd the ſad call her ſon and huſband heard,
When once alone it broke the ſilent ſcene,
And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.
O Fear! I know thee by thy throbbing heart,
Thy withering power inſpir'd each mournful line,
Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the ſcene are thine!

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou who ſuch weary lengths has paſt,
Where wilt thou reſt, mad Nymph, at laſt?
[31] Say, wilt thou ſhroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?
Or in ſome hollow'd ſeat,
'Gainſt which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning ſeamens cries in tempeſts brought!
Dark power, with ſhuddering meek ſubmitted thought.
Be mine, to read the viſions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told:
And, leſt thou meet my blaſted view,
Hold each ſtrange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghoſts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!
O thou whoſe ſpirit moſt poſſeſt
The ſacred ſeat of Shakeſpear's breaſt!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions ſpoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypreſs wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee!

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

[32]
O THOU by Nature taught,
To breathe her genuine thought,
In numbers warmly pure, and ſweetly ſtrong:
Who firſt on mountains wild,
In Fancy, lovelieſt child,
Thy babe, and Pleaſure's, nurs'd the powers of ſong!
Thou, who with hermit heart
Diſdain'ſt the wealth of art,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall:
But com'ſt a decent maid,
In Attic robe array'd,
O chaſte, unboaſtful nymph, to thee I call!
By all the honney'd ſtore
On Hybla's thymy ſhore,
By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear,
By her, whoſe love-lorn woe,
In evening muſings ſlow,
Sooth'd ſweetly ſad Electra's poet's ear:
By old Cephiſus deep,
Who ſpread his wavy ſweep
[33] In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat,
On whoſe enamel'd ſide,
When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet.
O ſiſter meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth,
Thy ſober aids and native charms infuſe!
The flowers that ſweeteſt breathe,
Tho' beauty cull'd the wreath,
Still aſk thy hand to range their order'd hues.
While Rome could none eſteem,
But virtue's patriot theme,
You lov'd her hills, and led her laureat band:
But ſtaid to ſing alone
To one diſtinguiſh'd throne,
And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
No more, in hall or bower,
The paſſions own thy power,
Love, only love her forceleſs numbers mean:
For thou haſt left her ſhrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bliſs the fertile ſcene.
Tho' taſte, tho' genius bleſs
To ſome divine exceſs,
[34] Faints the cold work till thou inſpire the whole;
What each, what all ſupply,
May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou can'ſt raiſe the meeting ſoul!
Of theſe let others aſk,
To aid ſome mighty taſk,
I only ſeek to find thy temperate vale:
Where oft my reed might ſound
To maids and ſhepherds round,
And all thy ſons, O Nature! learn my tale.

ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

[35]
AS once, if not with light regard,
I read aright that gifted Bard,
(Him whoſe ſchool above the reſt
His lovelieſt Elfin queen has bleſt)
One, only one, unrival'd fair*,
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At ſolemn turney hung on high,
The wiſh of each love-darting eye;
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unſeen, ſome hovering hand,
Some chaſte and angel-friend to virgin-fame,
With whiſper'd ſpell had burſt the ſtarting band,
It left unbleſt her loath'd diſhonour'd ſide;
Happier hopeleſs fair, if never
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour
Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me divineſt name,
To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven,
The ceſt of ampleſt power is given,
To few the god-like gift aſſigns,
To gird their bleſt prophetic loins,
And gaze her viſions wild, and feel unmix'd her flame.
[36] The band, as fairy legends ſay,
Was wove on that creating day,
When he, who call'd with thought to birth
Yon tented ſky, this laughing earth,
And dreſt with ſprings, and foreſts tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd Enthuſiaſt woo'd,
Himſelf in ſome diviner mood,
Retiring, ſat with her alone,
And plac'd her on his ſaphire throne,
The whiles, the vaulted ſhrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to ſound,
Now ſublimeſt triumph ſwelling,
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And ſhe, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic arts aloud:
And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy ſubject liſe was born!
The dangerous paſſions kept aloof,
Far from the ſainted growing woof:
But near it ſate ecſtatic Wonder,
Liſtening the deep applauded thunder:
And Truth, in ſunny veſt array'd,
By whoſe the Tarſel's eyes were made;
All the ſhadowy tribes of Mind,
In braided dance their murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted Pow'rs,
Who feed on heaven's ambroſial flowers.
[37] Where is the Bard, whoſe ſoul can now
Its high preſuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him deſign'd?
High on ſome cliff, to heav'n up-pil'd,
Of rude acceſs, of proſpect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous ſteep,
Strange ſhades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its ſprings unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like its own, lies ſpread.
I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which, as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that drop'd ethereal dew,
Nigh ſpher'd in heaven its native ſtrains could hear:
On which that antient trump he reach'd was hung;
Thither oft his glory greeting,
From Waller's myrtle ſhades retreating,
With many a vow ſrom Hope's aſpiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding ſteps purſue;
In vain—Such bliſs to one alone,
Of all the ſons of ſoul was known,
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inſpiring bowers,
Or curtain'd cloſe ſuch ſcene from every future view.

ODE, Written in the Year, MDCCXLVI.

[38]
HOW ſleep the brave, who ſink to reſt,
By all their country's wiſhes bleſt!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck her hallow'd mold,
She there ſhall dreſs a ſweeter ſod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By Fairy hands their kneel is rung,
By forms unſeen their dirge is ſung;
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 MERCY.

[39]

STROPHE.

O THOU, who ſit'ſt a ſmiling bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful ſide,
Gentleſt of ſky-born forms, and beſt ador'd:
Who oft with ſongs, divine to hear,
Win'ſt from his fatal graſp the ſpear,
And hid'ſt in wreaths of flowers his bloodleſs ſword!
Thou who, amidſt the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy boſom bare art found,
Pleading for him the youth who ſinks to ground:
See, Mercy, ſee, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy ſhrine my country's genius ſtands,
And decks thy altar ſtill, tho' pierc'd with many a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even our joys provoke,
The Fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,
And ruſh'd in wrath to make our iſle his prey;
Thy form, from out thy ſweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blaſted road,
And ſtop'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.
[40] I ſee recoil his ſable ſteeds,
That bore him ſwift to ſavage 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.

[41]

STROPHE.

WHO ſhall awake the Spartan fife,
And call in ſolemn ſounds to life,
The youths, whoſe locks divinely ſpreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in ſullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue ſhedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alcaeus, fancy-bleſt,
Shall ſing the ſword, in myrtles dreſt,
At Wiſdom's ſhrine, a-whiles it flame concealing,
(What place ſo fit to ſeal a deed renown'd?)
Till ſhe her brighteſt light'nings round revealing,
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound!
O Goddeſs! in that feeling hour,
When moſt its ſounds would court thy ears,
Let not my ſhell's miſguided power,
E'er draw thy ſad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy weeping face,
With heavieſt ſound, a giant-ſtatue, fell,
Puſh'd by a wild and artleſs race,
From off its wide ambitious baſe,
[42] When Time his northern ſons of ſpoil awoke,
And all the blended work of ſtrength and grace,
With many a rude repeated ſtroke,
And many a barbarous yell, to thouſand fragments broke.

EPODE.
2.

Yet ev'n, where'er the leaſt appear'd,
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, 'midſt the ſcatter'd ſtates around,
Some remnants of her ſtrength were found;
They ſaw, by what eſcap'd the ſtorm,
How wond'rous roſe her perfect form;
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty maſter pour'd his ſoul!
For ſunny Florence, ſeat of art,
Beneath her vines preſerv'd a part,
Till they, whom ſcience lov'd to name,
(O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame.
And lo, an humbler relict laid
In jealous Piſa's olive ſhade!
See ſmall Marino joins the theme,
Tho' leaſt, not laſt in thy eſteem.
Strike, louder ſtrike th' ennobling ſtrings,
To thoſe, whoſe merchant ſons were kings;
To him, who deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride:
Hail port of glory, wealth and pleaſure!
Ne'er let me change this Lydian meaſure:
[43] Nor e'er her former pride relate,
To ſad Liguria's bleeding ſtate.
Ah no! more pleas'd thy haunts I ſeek,
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
The ravening Eagle northward fled.)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With thoſe* to whom thy ſtork is dear:
Thoſe whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whoſe crown a Britiſh queen reſus'd!
The magic works, thou ſeel'ſt the ſtrains,
One holier name alone remains;
The perfect ſpell ſhall then avail,
Hail Nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

ANTISTROPHE.

Beyond the meaſure vaſt of thought,
The works, the wizzard Time has wrought!
[44] The Gaul, 'tis held of antique ſtory,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverſe ſtrand,
No ſea between, nor cliff ſublime and hoary,
He paſs'd with unwet feet thro' all our land.
To the blown Baltic then, they ſay,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfiſh mountains rounding!
Till all the banded weſt at once 'gan riſe,
A wide wild ſtorm even Nature's ſelf confounding,
With'ring her giant ſons with ſtrange uncouth ſurpriſe.
This pillar'd earth ſo firm and wide,
By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was puſh'd aſide,
And down the ſhouldering billows born.
And ſee, like gems, her laughing train,
The little iſles on every ſide,
Mon*, once hid from thoſe who ſearch the main,
Where thouſand Elfin ſhapes abide,
[45] And Wight who checks the weſt'ring tide,
For thee conſenting heaven has each beſtow'd,
A fair attendant on her ſovereign pride:
To thee this bleſt divorce ſhe ow'd,
For thou haſt made her vales thy lov'd, thy laſt abode!

SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis ſaid, an hoary pile,
'Midſt the green navel of our iſle,
Thy ſhrine in ſome religious wood,
O ſoul-enforcing Goddeſs, ſtood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celeſtial meet:
Tho'now with hopeleſs toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treſſed Dane,
Or Roman's ſelf o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'Twere hard for modern ſong to tell.
Yet ſtill, if truth thoſe beams infuſe,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muſe,
[46] Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd ſky:
Amidſt the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous Model ſtill remains.
There happier than in iſlands bleſt,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe dreſt,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's ſtory,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their conſorted Druids ſing
Their triumphs to th' immortal ſtring.
How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue nor numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Even now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it ſeems to riſe!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majeſtic thro' the mix'd deſign;
The ſecret builder knew to chuſe,
Each ſphere-found gem of richeſt hues:
Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains,
When nearer ſuns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the Patriot's ſight
May ever hang with freſh delight,
And, grav'd with ſome prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame thro' every age.
[47] Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,
That near her inmoſt altar ſtand!
Now ſoothe her, to her bliſsful train
Blithe Concord's ſocial form to gain:
Concord, whoſe myrtle wand can ſteep
Even Anger's blood-ſhot eyes in ſleep:
Before whoſe breathing boſom's balm,
Rage drops his ſteel, and ſtorms grow calm;
Her let our ſires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Briton's ravag'd ſhore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding ſound,
The nations ſhout to her around,
O how ſupremely art thou bleſt,
Thou, Lady, thou ſhalt rule the weſt!

ODE, To a Lady, on the Death of Colonel CHARLES ROSS in the Action at Fontenoy.
Written MAY, MDCCXLV.

[48]
WHILE, loſt to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day:
While ſtain'd with blood he ſtrives to tear
Unſeemly ſrom his ſea-green hair
The wreaths of chearful May:
The thoughts which muſing 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 deſcending wave
His country's vows ſhall bleſs the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That ſacred ſpot the village hind
With every ſweeteſt turf ſhall bind,
And Peace protect the ſhade.
[49] O'er him, whoſe doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms ſhall ſit at eve,
And bend the penſive head!
And, ſall'n to ſave 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 ſainted reſt;
And half-reclining on his ſpear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming gueſt.
Old Edward's ſons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Creſſy's laurell'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they ſnatch the gleamy ſteel,
And wiſh th' avenging fight.
But lo where, ſunk in deep deſpair,
Her garments torn, her boſom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted treſſes madly ſpread,
To every ſod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyleſs eyes.
Ne'er ſhall ſhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph burſting round.
[50] Proclaim her reign reſtor'd:
Till William ſeek the ſad retreat,
And, bleeding at her ſacred feet,
Preſent the ſated ſword.
If, weak to ſoothe ſo ſoft 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 ſeeſt him lie,
Wild war infulting near:
Where'er from time thou court'ſt relief,
The Muſe ſhall ſtill, with ſocial grief,
Her gentleſt promiſe keep:
Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the ſad repeating tale,
And bid her ſhepherds weep.

ODE TO EVENING.

[51]
IF aught of oaten ſtop, or paſtoral ſong,
May hope, chaſte Eve, to ſoothe thy modeſt ear,
Like thy own ſolemn ſprings,
Thy ſprings and dying gales,
O Nymph reſerv'd, while now the bright-hair'd ſun.
Sits on yon weſtern tent, whoſe cloudy ſkirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is huſh'd, ſave where the weak-ey'd bat,
With ſhort ſhrill ſhriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His ſmall but ſullen horn,
As oft he riſes 'midſt the twilight path,
Againſt the pilgrim born in heedleſs hum:
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breathe ſome ſoſten'd ſtrain,
Whoſe numbers ſtealing thro' thy dark'ning vale,
May not unſeemly with its ſtillneſs ſuit,
As muſing ſlow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
[52]
For when thy folding-ſtar ariſing ſhows
His paly circlet, as his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who ſlept in buds the day,
And many a Nymph who wreath her brows with ſedge,
And ſheds the freſhening dew, and lovelier ſtill,
The penſive Pleaſures ſweet
Prepare thy ſhadowy car.
Then let me rove ſome wild and heathy ſcene,
Or find ſome ruin 'midſt its dreary dells,
Whoſe walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill-bluſtring winds, or driving rain,
Prevent thy willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's ſide,
Views wilds, and ſwelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-diſcover'd ſpires,
And hears their ſimple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual duſky veil.
While Spring ſhall pour his ſhowers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing treſſes, meekeſt Eve!
While Summer loves to ſport
Beneath thy lingering light:
[53]
While ſallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air,
Affrights thy ſhrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:
So long regardſul of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendſhip, Science, ſmiling Peace,
Thy gentleſt influence own,
And love thy favourite name!

ODE TO PEACE

[54]
OTHOU, who bad'ſt thy turtles bear
Swift from his graſp thy golden hair,
And ſought'ſt thy native ſkies:
When War, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bad his ſtorms ariſe!
Tir'd of his rude tyrannic ſway,
Our youth ſhall fix ſome feſtive day,
His ſullen ſhrines to burn:
But thou, who hear'ſt the turning ſpheres,
What ſounds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bleſt return!
O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind!
O riſe, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train:
The Britiſh lion, Goddeſs ſweet,
Lies ſtretch'd on earth to kiſs thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.
Let others court thy tranſient ſmile,
But come to grace thy weſtern iſle,
By warlike Honour led!
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her ſons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

THE MANNERS. AN ODE.

[55]
FAREWELL, for clearer ken deſign'd;
The dim-diſcover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's path retir'd,
My ſilent ſearch in vain requir'd!
No more my ſail that deep explores,
No more I ſearch thoſe magic ſhores,
What regions part the world of ſoul,
Or whence thy ſtreams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round ſuch Fairy field,
Some power impart the ſpear and ſhield,
At which the wizzard Paſſions fly,
By which the giant Follies die!
Farewell the porch, whoſe roof is ſeen,
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tiſſued veſt,
By Reaſon, Pride, and Fancy dreſt,
Comes like a bride, ſo trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's ſhade!
Youth of the quick uncheated ſight,
Thy walks, Obſervance, more invite!
O thou, who lov'ſt that ampler range,
Where life's wide proſpects round thee change,
[56] And, with her mingled ſons allied,
Throw'ſt the prattling page aſide:
To me in converſe ſweet impart,
To read in man the native heart,
To learn, where Science ſure is found,
From Nature as ſhe lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each ſhifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore,
Reverſe the leſſons taught before,
Alluring from a fairer rule,
To dream in her enchanted ſchool;
Thou, heaven, whate'er of great we boaſt,
Haſt bleſt this ſocial ſcience moſt.
Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent ſpell,
Not vain ſhe finds the charmful taſk,
In pageant quaint, in motley maſk,
Behold, before her muſing eyes,
The countleſs Manners round her riſe;
While ever varying as they paſs,
To ſome Contempt applies her glaſs:
With theſe the white-rob'd Maids combine,
And thoſe the laughing Satyrs join!
But who is he whom now ſhe views,
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the paſſions nurs'd; I greet
The comic ſock that binds thy feet!
[57] O Humour, thou whoſe name is known,
To Britain's favour'd iſle alone:
Me too amidſt thy band admit,
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,
(Whoſe jewels in his criſped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to ſhare,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy ſide!
By old Miletus* who ſo long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven ſong:
By all you taught the Tuſcan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern ſhades:
By him, whoſe Knight's diſtinguiſh'd name
Refin'd a nation's luſt of ſame;
Whoſe tales even now, with echoes ſweet,
Caſtilia's Mooriſh hills repeat:
Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's ſhore,
Who drew the ſad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her ſire betray'd:
O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
[58] If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy ſeal!
Let ſome retreating Cynic find
Thoſe oft-turn'd ſcrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree,
To rove thy ſcene-full world with thee!

THE PASSIONS.
An ODE for MUSIC.

[59]
WHEN Muſic, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece ſhe ſung,
The Paſſions oft, to hear her ſhell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poſſeſt beyond the Muſe's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Diſturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis ſaid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inſpir'd,
From the ſupporting myrtles round
They ſnatch'd her inſtruments of ſound,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leſſons of her forceful art,
Each, for madneſs rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreſſive power.
Firſt Fear his hand, its ſkill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd he knew not why,
Even at the ſound himſelf had made.
[60] Next Anger ruſh'd, his eyes on fire,
In light'nings own'd his ſecret ſtings,
In one rude claſh he ſtruck the lyre,
And ſwept with hurried hand the ſtrings.
With woeful meaſures wan Deſpair—
Low ſullen ſounds his grief beguil'd,
A ſolemn, ſtrange, and mingled air,
'Twas ſad by fits, by ſtarts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes ſo fair,
What was thy delighted meaſure?
Still it whiſper'd promis'd pleaſure,
And bad the lovely ſcenes at diſtance hail!
Still would her touch the ſcene prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd an Echo ſtill thro' all the ſong;
And where her ſweeteſt theme ſhe choſe,
A ſoft reſponſive voice was heard at every cloſe,
And Hope enchanted ſmil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had ſhe ſung,—but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient roſe,
He threw his blood ſtain'd ſword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blaſt ſo loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic ſounds ſo full of woe,
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
[61] And tho' ſometimes, each dreary pauſe between,
Dejected Pity at his ſide,
Her ſoul-ſubduing voice applied,
Yet ſtill he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each ſtrain'd ball of ſight ſeem'd burſting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealouſy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy diſtreſsful ſtate,
Of differing themes the veering ſong was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
With eyes up-rais'd, as one inſpir'd,
Pale Melancholy ſat retir'd,
And from her wild ſequeſter'd ſeat,
In notes by diſtance made more ſweet,
Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her penſive ſoul:
And daſhing ſoft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the ſound;
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled meaſure ſtole,
Or o'er ſome haunted ſtreams with ſond delay,
Round an holy calm diffuſing,
Love of peace, and lonely muſing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But O, how alter'd was its ſprightlier tone!
When Chearfulneſs, a nymph of healthieſt hue,
Her bow acroſs her ſhoulder flung,
Her buſkins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inſpiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;
[62] The oak-crown'd Siſters, and their chaſte-eyed queen,
Satyrs and ſylvan boys were ſeen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exerciſe rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leapt up and ſeiz'd his beechen ſpear.
Laſt came Joy's ecſtatic trial,
He with viny crown advancing,
Firſt to the lively pipe his hand addreſt,
But ſoon he ſaw the briſk awakening viol,
Whoſe ſweet entrancing voice he lov'd the beſt.
They would have thought, who heard the ſtrain,
They ſaw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidſt the feſtal ſounding ſhades,
To ſome unwearied minſtrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiſs'd the ſtrings,
Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantaſtic round,
Looſe were her traces ſeen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidſt his ſrolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thouſand odours from his dewy wings.
O Muſic! ſphere-deſcended maid,
Friend of pleaſure, wiſdom's aid,
Why, Goddeſs, why to us denied?
Lay'ſt thou thy antient lyre aſide?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all commanding power,
Thy mimic ſoul, O nymph endear'd!
Can well recall what then it heard.
[63] Where is thy native ſimple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Ariſe, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaſte, ſublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Siſter's page—
'Tis ſaid, and I believe the tale,
Thy humbleſt reed could more prevail,
Had more of ſtrength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Even all at once together found
Caecilia's mingled world of ſound—
O bid our vain endeavours ceaſe,
Revive the juſt deſigns of Greece,
Return in all thy ſimple ſtate!
Confirm the tales her ſons relate!

AN EPISTLE
Addreſſed to Sir THOMAS HANMER, on his Edition of SHAKESPEAR'S Works.

[64]
WHILE born to bring the Muſe's happier days,
A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays,
While nurs'd by you ſhe ſees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb!
Excuſe her doubts, if yet ſhe fears to tell
What ſecret tranſports in her boſom ſwell:
With conſcious awe ſhe hears the critic's ſame,
And bluſhing hides her wreath at Shakeſpear's name,
Hard was the lot thoſe injur'd ſtrains endur'd,
Unknown by ſcience, and by years obſcur'd:
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing ſighs confeſs'd
A fixt deſpair in every tuneful breaſd.
Not with more grief th' afflicted ſwains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering froſts the ruin'd ſeats invade
Where Peace reſorted, and the Graces play'd.
Each riſing art by juſt gradation moves,
Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves:
The Muſe alone unequal dealt her rage,
And grac'd with nobleſt pomp her earlieſt ſtage.
[65] Preſerv'd thro' time, the ſpeaking ſcenes impart
Each changeful wiſh of Phaedra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curſe, that mark'd the* Theban's reign,
A bed inceſtuous, and a father ſlain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the ſad tale, and one another's woe.
To Rome remov'd, with wit ſecure to pleaſe,
The comic ſiſters kept their native eaſe.
With jealous fear declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander's art almoſt excell'd!
But every Muſe eſſay'd to raiſe in vain
Some labour'd rival of her tragic ſtrain;
Ilyſſus' laurels, tho' transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly ſoil.
As arts expir'd, reſiſtleſs Dulneſs roſe;
Goths, prieſts, or Vandals,—all were Learning's foes.
Till Julius firſt recall'd each exil'd maid,
And Coſmo own'd them in th' Etrurian ſhade:
Then deeply ſkill'd in love's engaging theme,
The ſoft Provencial paſs'd to Arno's ſtream:
With graceful eaſe the wanton lyre he ſtrung,
Sweet flow'd the lays—but love was all he ſung.
The gay deſcription could not fail to move;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.
[66]
But heaven, ſtill various in its works, decreed
The perfect boaſt of time ſhould laſt ſucceed.
The beauteous union muſt appear at length,
Of Tuſcan fancy and Athenian ſtrength:
One greater Muſe Eliza's reign adorn,
And even a Shakeſpear to her ſame be born!
Yet ah! ſo bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
No ſecond growth the weſtern iſle could bear,
At once exhauſted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Johnſon knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almoſt loſt in art.
Of ſoſter mold the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midſt his ſcenes we find
Each glowing thought, that warms the female mind;
Each melting ſigh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wiſhes, and the virgin's fear.
His* every ſtrain the Smiles and Graces own;
But ſtronger Shakeſpear felt for man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder paſſions ſtand
Th'unrivall'd picture of his early hand.
With gradual ſteps, and ſlow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her ſhores advance:
[67] By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and juſt in all ſhe drew.
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's ſpirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free ſtrain, as Rome and he inſpir'd:
And claſſic judgment gain'd to ſweet Racine
The temperate ſtrength of Maro's chaſter line.
But wilder far the Britiſh laurel ſpread,
And wreaths leſs artful crown our poet's head.
Yet He alone of every ſcene could give
Th' hiſtorian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad ſurprize,
Majeſtic forms of mighty monarchs riſe.
There Henry's trumpets ſpread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd Conqueſt waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying ſigh,
Scarce born to honours, and ſo ſoon to die!
Yet ſhall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
The* time ſhall come, when Glo'ſter's heart ſhall bleed
In life's laſt hours, with horror of the deed:
[68] When dreary viſions ſhall at laſt preſent
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unſeen the ſecret death ſhall bear,
Blunt the weak ſword, and break th' oppreſſive ſpear.
Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find
Some ſweet illuſion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, ſhe calls the ſoul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where ſwains contented own the quiet ſcene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dreſs'd by her hand, the woods and vallies ſmile,
And Spring diffuſive decks th'inchanted iſle.
O more than all in powerful genius bleſt,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breaſt!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart ſhall feel,
Thy ſongs ſupport me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the poet's warmth may raiſe,
There native muſic dwells in all the lays.
O might ſome verſe with happieſt ſkill purſuade
Expreſſive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draughts might riſe from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a diſtant age!
Methinks even now I view ſome free deſign,
Where breathing Nature lives in every line:
[69] Chaſte and ſubdued the modeſt lights decay,
Steal into ſhades and mildly melt away.
—And ſee where* Anthony, in tears approv'd,
Guards the pale relicts of the chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold corſe the warrior ſeems to bend,
Deep ſunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they preſs, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
But who is he, whoſe brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th' avenging ſteel.
Yet ſhall not war's inſatiate fury fall,
(So heaven ordains it) on the deſtin'd wall.
See the fond mother, 'midſt the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and proſtrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the ſoul, in vain he ſtrives to hide
The ſon's affection, in the Roman's pride:
O'er all the man conflicting paſſions riſe,
Rage graſps the ſword, while pity melts the eyes.
Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard inſpires,
The ſiſter Arts ſhall nurſe their drooping fires;
[70] Each from his ſcenes her ſtores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal ſtring:
Thoſe Sibyl-leaves, the ſport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careleſs kind)
By thee diſpos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, juſt to Nature, own thy forming hand.
So ſpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown,
Even Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulyſſes ſcarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters caſt on every ſhore:
When rais'd by fate, ſome former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundleſs mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

DIRGE In CYMBELINE.

[71]
Sung by GUIDERUS and ARVIRAGUS over FIDELE, ſuppoſed to be dead.
TO fair Fidele's graſſy tomb,
Soft maid and village hinds ſhall bring
Each opening ſweet, of earlieſt bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No waiſing ghoſt ſhall dare appear
To vex with ſhrieks this quiet grove,
But ſhepherd lads aſſemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch ſhall here be ſeen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female ſays ſhall haunt the green,
And dreſs thy grave with pearly dew!
The red-bread oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moſs, and gather'd ſlowers,
To deck the ground where them art laid.
[72]
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempeſts ſhake the ſylvan cell;
Or 'midſt the chace on every plain,
The tender thought on thee ſhall dwell.
Each lonely ſcene ſhall thee reſtore,
For thee the tear be duly ſhed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's ſelf be dead.

ODE, ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

[73]
The Scene of the following STANZAS is ſuppoſed to lie on the THAMES, near RICHMOND.
I.
IN yonder grave a Druid lies
Where ſlowly winds the ſtealing wave!
The year's beſt ſweets ſhall duteous riſe
To deck its Poet's ſylvan grave!
II.
In yon deep bed of whiſp'ring reeds
His airy harp* ſhall now be laid,
That he, whoſe heart in ſorrow bleeds,
May love thro' life the ſoothing ſhade.
III.
Then maids and youths ſhall linger here,
And while its ſounds at diſtance ſwell,
Shall ſadly ſeem in Pity's ear
To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell.
[74]IV.
Remembrance oft ſhall haunt the ſhore
When Thames in ſummer wreaths is dreſt,
And oft ſuſpend the daſhing oar
To bid his gentle ſpirit reſt!
V.
And oft as Eaſe and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or ſoreſt deep,
The friend ſhall view yon whitening* ſpire,
And 'mid the varied landſcape weep.
VI.
But Thou, who own'ſt that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail!
Or tears, which Love and Pity ſhed
That mourn beneath the gliding ſail!
VII.
Yet lives there one, whoſe heedleſs eye
Shall ſcorn thy pale ſhrine glimm'ring near?
With him, ſwect bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy deſert the blooming year.
VIII.
But thou, lorn ſtream, whoſe ſullen tide
No ſedge-crown'd Siſters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's ſide
Whoſe cold turf hides the buried friend!
[75]IX.
And ſee, the fairy valleys fade,
Dun Night has veil'd the ſolemn ſhade,
Yet once again, dear parted ſhade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu!
X.
* The genial meads aſſign'd to bleſs
Thy life, ſhall mourn thy early doom;
Their hinds and ſhepherd-girls ſhall dreſs
With ſimple hands thy rural tomb.
IX.
Long, long, thy ſtone, and pointed clay
Shall melt the muſing Briton's eyes,
O! vales, and wild woods, ſhall He ſay,
In yonder grave Your Druid lies!
[]

OBSERVATIONS ON THE ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

OBSERVATIONS, etc.

[79]

THE genius of the paſtoral, as well as of every other reſpectable ſpecies of poetry, had its origin in the Eaſt, and from thence was tranſplanted by the Muſes of Greece; but whether from the continent of the leſſer Aſia, or from Egypt, which, about the aera of the Grecian paſtoral, was the hoſpitable nurſe of letters, it is not eaſy to determine. From the ſubjects and the manner of Theocritus, one would incline to the latter opinion, while the hiſtory of Bion is in ſavour of the former.

HOWEVER, though it ſhould ſtill remain a doubt through what channel the paſtoral travelled weſtward, there is not the leaſt ſhadow of uncertainty concerning its Oriental origin.

In thoſe ages, which, guided by ſacred chronology, from a comparative view of time, we call the early ages, it appears from the moſt authentic hiſtorians, that the chieſs of the people employed themſelves in rural exerciſes, and that aſtronomers and legiſlators were at the ſame time ſhepherds. Thus Strabo informs us that the hiſtory of the creation was communicated to the Egyptians by a Chaldean ſhepherd.

[80] FROM theſe circumſtances it is evident not only that ſuch ſhepherds were capable of all the dignity and elegance peculiar to poetry, but that whatever poetry they attempted would be of the paſtoral kind; would take its ſubjects from thoſe ſcenes of rural ſimplicity in which they were converſant, and, as it was the offspring of Harmony and Nature, would employ the powers it derived from the former to celebrate the beauty and benevolence of the latter.

ACCORDINGLY we find that the moſt ancient poems treat of agriculture, aſtronomy, and other objects within the rural and natural ſyſtems.

WHAT conſtitutes the difference between the Georgic and the Paſtoral is love, and the colloquial, or dramatic form of compoſition peculiar to the latter: this form of compoſition is ſometimes diſpenſed with, and love and rural imagery alone are thought ſufficient to diſtinguiſh the paſtoral. The tender paſſion, however, ſeems to be eſſential to this ſpecies of poetry, and is hardly ever excluded from thoſe pieces that were intended to come under this denomination: even in thoſe eclogues of the Amoebean kind, whoſe only purport is a trial of ſkill between contending ſhepherds, love has its uſual ſhare, and the praiſes of their reſpective miſteſſes are the general ſubjects of the competitors.

IT is to be lamented that ſcarce any oriental compoſitions of this kind have ſurvived the ravages of ignorance, [81] tyranny and time; we cannot doubt that many ſuch have been extant, poſſibly as far down as that fatal period, never to be mentioned in the world of letters without horrour, when the glorious monuments of human ingenuity periſhed in the aſhes of the Alexandrian library.

THOSE ingenious Creeks whom we call the parents of paſtoral poetry were, probably, no more than imitators of imitators, that derived their harmony from higher and remoter ſources, and kindled their poetical fires at thoſe unextinguiſhed lamps which burned within the tombs of oriental genius.

IT is evident that Homer has availed himſelf of thoſe magnificent images and deſcriptions ſo frequently to be met with in the books of the Old Teſtament; and why may not Theocritus, Moſchus and Bion have found their archetypes in other eaſtern writers, whoſe names have periſhed with their works? yet, though it may not be illiberal to admit ſuch a ſuppoſition, it would, certainly, be invidious to conclued what the malignity of cavillers alone could ſuggeſt with regard to Homer, that they deſtroyed the ſources from which they borrowed, and, as it is fabled of the young of the pelican, drained their ſupporters to death.

As the ſeptuagint-tranſlation of the Old Teſtament was performed at the requeſt, and under the patronage [82] of Ptolemy Philadelphus, it were not to be wondered if Theocritus, who was entertained at that prince's court, had borrowed ſome part of his paſtoral imagery from the poetical paſſages of thoſe books.—I think it can hardly be doubted that the Sicilian poet had in his eye certain expreſſions of the prophet Iſaiah, when he wrote the following lines.

[...]
[...]
[...]
[...].
Let vexing brambles the blue violet bear,
On the rude thorn Narciſſus dreſs his hair—
All, all revers'd—The pine with pears be crown'd,
And the bold deer ſhall drag the trembling hound.

The cauſe, indeed, of theſe phenomena is very different in the Greek from what it is in the Hebrew poet; the former employing them on the death, the latter on the birth of an important perſon: but the marks of imitation are nevertheleſs obvious.

IT might, however, be expected that if Theocritus had borrowed at all from the ſacred writers, the celebrated paſtoral Epithalamium of Solomon, ſo much within his own walk of Poetry, would not certainly have eſcaped his notice. His Epithalamium on the marriage of Helena, moreover, gave him an open [83] field for imitation; therefore, if he has any obligations to the royal bard, we may expect to find them there. The very opening of the poem is in the ſpirit of the Hebrew ſong: [...].’ The colour of imitation is ſtill ſtronger in the following paſſage:

[...],
[...]
[...],
[...].
[...].

This deſcription of Helen is infinitely above the ſtyle and figure of the Sicilian paſtoral—"She is like the riſing of the golden morning, when the night departeth, and when the winter is over and gone. She reſembleth the cypreſs in the garden, the horſe in the chariots of Theſſaly." Theſe figures plainly declare their origin, and others equally imitative might be pointed out in the ſame idyllium.

THIS beautiful and luxuriant marriage-paſtoral of Solomon is the only perfect form of the oriental eclogue that has ſurvived the ruins of time; a happineſs for which it is, probably, more indebted to its ſacred [84] character than to its intrinſic merit. Not that it is by any means deſtitute of poetical excellence: like all the eaſtern poetry, it is bold, wild and unconnected in its figures, alluſions and parts, and has all that graceful and magnificent daring which characteriſes its metaphorical and comparative imagery.

IN conſequence of theſe peculiarities, ſo ill adapted to the frigid genius of the north, Mr. COLLINS could make but little uſe of it as a precedent for his oriental eclogues; and even in his third eclogue, where the ſubject is of a ſimilar nature, he has choſen rather to follow the mode of the Doric and the Latian paſtoral.

THE ſcenery and ſubjects then of the following eclogues alone are Oriental; the ſtyle and colouring are purely European; and, for this reaſon, the author's preface, in which he intimates that he had the originals from a merchant who traded to the Eaſt, is omitted as being now altogether ſuperfluous.

WITH regard to the merit of theſe eclogues, it may juſtly be aſſerted, that in ſimplicity of deſcription and expreſſion, in delicacy and ſoftneſs of numbers, and in natural and unaffected tenderneſs, they are not to be equalled by any thing of the paſtoral kind in the Engliſh language.

ECLOGUE I.

[85]

THIS eclogue, which is entitled Selim, or the Shepherd's Moral, as there is nothing dramatic in the ſubject, may be thought the leaſt entertaining of the four: but it is, by no means, the leaſt valuable. The moral precepts which the intelligent ſhepherd delivers to his fellow-ſwains and virgins, their companions, are ſuch as would infallibly promote the happineſs of the paſtoral life.

IN imperſonating the private virtues, the poet has obſerved great propriety, and has formed their genealogy with the moſt perfect judgment, when he repreſents them as the daughters of truth and wiſdom.

THE characteriſtics of Modeſty and Chaſtity are extremely happy and peintureſque:

Come thou, whoſe thoughts as limpid ſprings are clear,
To lead the train, ſweet Modeſty appear!
With thee be Chaſtity, of all afraid,
Diſtruſting all, a wiſe ſuſpicious maid;
Cold is her breaſt, like flowers that drink the dew,
A ſilken veil conceals her from the view.

[86] The two ſimiles borrowed from rural objects are not only much, in character, but perfectly natural and expreſſive. There is, notwithſtanding, this defect in the former, that it wants a peculiar propriety; for purity of thought may as well be applied to chaſtity as to modeſty; and from this inſtance, as well as from a thouſand more, we may ſee the neceſſity of diſtinguiſhing, in characteriſtic poetry, every object by marks and attributes peculiarly its own.

IT cannot be objected to this eclogue that it wants both theſe eſſential criteria of the paſtoral, love and the drama; for though it partakes not of the latter, the former ſtill retains an intereſt in it, and that too very material, as it profeſſedly conſults the virtue and happineſs of the lover, while it informs what are the qualities —that muſt lead to love.

ECLOGUE II.

[87]

ALL the advantages that any ſpecies of poetry can derive from the novelty of the ſubject and ſcenery, this eclogue poſſeſſes. The rout of a cameldriver is a ſcene that ſcarce could exiſt in the imagination of an European, and of its attendant diſtreſſes he could have no idea.—Theſe are very happily and minutely painted by our deſcriptive poet. What ſublime ſimpliciry of expreſſion! what nervous plainneſs in the opening of the poem!

In ſilent horror o'er the boundleſs waſte
The driver Haſſan with the camels paſt.

The magic pencil of the poet brings the whole ſcene before us at once, as it were by enchantment, and in this ſingle couplet we feel all the effect that ariſes from the terrible wildneſs of a region unenlivened by the habitations of men. The verſes that deſcribe ſo minutely the camel-driver's little proviſions, have a touching influence on the imagination, and prepare to enter more feelingly into his future apprehensions of diſtreſs:

[88]
Bethink thee Haſſan, where ſhall thirſt aſſuage,
When fails this cruiſe, his unrelenting rage!

It is difficult to ſay whether his apoſtrophe to, the "mute companions of his toils" is more to be admired for the elegance and beauty of the poetical imagery, or for the tenderneſs and humanity of the ſentiment. He who can read it without being affected, will do his heart no injuſtice, if he concludes it to be deſtitute of ſenſibility:

Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my grieſs a more than equal ſhare!
Here, where no ſprings in murmur break away,
Or moſs-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more bleſt, or verdant vales beſtow:
Here rocks alone, and taſteleſs ſands are found,
And faint and ſickly winds for ever howl around.

Yet in theſe beautiful lines there is a flight error, which writers of the greateſt genius very frequently fall into.—It will be needleſs to obſerve to the accurate reader that in the fifth and ſixth verſes there is a verbal pleonaſm, where the poet ſpeaks of the green delights of verdant vales. There is an overſight of [89] the ſame kind, in the Manners, an Ode; where the poet ſays,

—Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds—

This fault is indeed a common one, but to a reader of taſte it is nevertheleſs diſguſtful; and it is mentioned here as the error of a man of genius and judgment, that men of genius and judgment may guard againſt it.

MR. COLLINS ſpeaks like a true Poet as well in ſentiment as expreſſion, when, with regard to the thirſt of wealth, he ſays,

Why heed we not, while mad we haſte along,
The gentle voice of peace, or pleaſure's ſong?
Or wherefor think die flowery mountain's ſide,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,
Why think we theſe leſs pleaſing to behold,
Than dreary deſerts, if, they lead to gold?

But, however juſt theſe ſentiments may appear to thofſe who have not revolted from nature and ſimplicity, had the author proclaimed them in Lombard-ſtreet, or Cheapſide, he would, not have been complimented with the underſtanding of the bellman.—A ſtriking proof [90] that our own particular ideas of happineſs regulate our opinions concerning the ſenſe and wiſdom of others!

It is impoſſible to take leave of this moſt beautiful eclogue without paying the tribute of admiration ſo juſtly due to the following nervous lines.

What if the lion in his rage I meet!—
Oft in the duſt I view his printed feet:
And fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to thc mourner night,
By hunger rous'd, he ſcours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and fullen tygers in his train:
Before them death with ſhrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.

This, amongſt many other paſſages to be met with in the writings of Collins, ſhews that his genius was perfectly capable of the grand and magnificent in deſcription, notwithſtanding what a learned writer has advanced to the contrary. Nothing, certainly, could be more greatly conceived, or more adequately expreſſed than the image in the laſt couplet.

THAT deception, ſometimes uſed in rhetoric and poetry, which preſents us with an object, or ſentiment contrary to what we expected, is here introduced to the greateſt advantage:

[91]
Farewell the youth, whom ſighs could not detain,
Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain!
Yet as thou go'ſt, may every blaſt ariſe—
Weak and unfelt as theſe rejected ſighs!

But this, perhaps, is rather an artificial prettyneſs, than a real, or natural beauty.

ECLOGUE III.

[92]

THAT innocence, and native ſimplicity of manners, which, in the firſt eclogue, was allowed to conſtitute the happineſs of love, is here beautifully deſcribed in its effects. The Sultan of Perſia marries a Georgian ſhepherdeſs, and finds in her embraces that genuine felicity which unperverted nature alone can beſtow. The moſt natural and beautiful parts of this eclogue are thoſe where the fair Sultana refers with ſo much pleaſure to her paſtoral amuſements, and thoſe ſcenes of happy innocence in which ſhe had paſſed her early years; particularly when, upon her firſt departure,

Oft as ſhe went, ſhe backward turn'd her view,
And bad that crook and bleating flock adieu.

This picture of amiable ſimplicity reminds one of that paſſage, where Proſerpine, when carried off by Pluto, regrets the loſs of the flowers ſhe had been gathering.

Collecti flores tunicis cecidere remiſſis:
Tantaque ſimplicitas puerilibus adfuit annis,
Haec quoque virgineum movit jactura dolorem.

ECLOGUE IV.

[93]

THE beautiful, but unfortunate country, where the ſcene of this pathetic eclogue is laid, had been recently torn in pieces by the depredations of its ſavage neighbours, when Mr. Collins ſo affectingly deſcribed its misfortunes. This ingenious man had not only a pencil to pourtray, but a heart to feel for the miſeries of mankind, and it is with the utmoſt tenderneſs and humanity he enters into the narrative of Circaſſia's ruin, while he realizes the ſcene, and brings the preſent drama before us. Of every circumſtance that could poſſibly contribute to the tender effect this paſtoral was deſigned to produce, the poet has availed himſelf with the utmoſt art and addreſs. Thus he prepares the heart to pity the diſtreſſes of Circaſſia, by repreſenting it as the ſcene of the happieſt love.

In fair Circaſſia, where, to love inclin'd,
Each ſwain was bleſt, for every maid was kind.

To give the circumſtances of the dialogue a more affecting ſolemnity, he makes the time midnight, and [94] deſcribes the two ſhepherds in the very act of flight from the deſtruction that ſwept over their country:

Sad o'er the dews, two brother ſhepherds fled,
Where wildering fear and deſperate ſorrow led:

There is a beauty and propriety in the epithet wildering, which ſtrikes us more forcibly, the more we conſider it.

THE opening of the dialogue is equally happy, natural and unaffected; when one of the ſhepherds, weary and overcome with the flight, calls upon his companion to review the length of way they had paſſed.—This is, certainly, painting from nature, and the thoughts, however obvious, or deſtitute of refinement, are perfectly in character. But as the cloſeſt purſuit of nature is the ſureſt way to excellence in general, and to ſublimity in particular, in poetical deſcription, ſo we find that this ſimple ſuggeſtion of the ſhepherd is not unattended with magnificence. There is grandeur and variety in the landſkip he deſcribes:

And firſt review that long extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already paſt with pain!
Yon ragged cliff, whoſe dangerous path we tried!
And laſt, this lofty mountain's weary ſide.

[95] There is, in imitative harmony, an act of expreſſing a ſlow and difficult movement by adding to the uſual number of pauſes in a verſe. This is obſervable in the line that deſcribes the aſcent of the mountain: ‘And laſt ‖ this loſty mountain's ‖ weary ſide ‖’ Here we find the number of pauſes, or muſical bars, which, in an heroic verſe, is commonly two, increaſed to three.

THE liquid melody, and the numerous ſweetneſs of expreſſion in the following deſcriptive lines is almoſt inimitably beautiful:

Sweet to the fight is Zabran's flowery plain,
And once by nymphs and ſhepherds lov'd in vain!
No more the virgins ſhall delight to rove
By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's ſhaddy grove;
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,
Or breathe the ſweets of Aly's flowery vale.

Nevertheleſs in this delightful landſkip there is an obvious ſault: there is no diſtinction between the plain of Zabran and the vale of Aly; they are both flowery, and conſequently undiverſiſied. This could not proceed from the poet's want of judgment, but from inattention: it had not occurred to him that he had [96] employed the epithet flowery twice within ſo ſhort a compaſs; an overſight which thoſe who are accuſtomed to poetical, or, indeed, to any other ſpecies of compoſition, know to be very poſſible.

NOTHING can be more beautifully conceived, or more pathetically expreſſed than the ſhepherd's apprehenſions for his fair country-women, expoſed to the ravages of the invaders.

In vain Circaſſia boaſts her ſpicy groves,
For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves:
In vain ſhe boaſts her faireſt of the fair,
Their eye's blue languiſh, and their golden hair!
Thoſe eyes in tears their fruitleſs grief ſhall ſend;
Thoſe hairs the Tartar's cruel hand ſhall rend.

There is, certainly, ſome very powerful charm in the liquid melody of ſounds. The editor of theſe poems could never read, or hear the following verſe repeated without a degree of pleaſure otherwiſe entirely unaccountable: ‘Their eye's blue languish, and their golden hair. Such are the Oriental Eclogues, which we leave with the ſame kind of anxious pleaſure we feel upon a temporary parting with a beloved friend.

[]

OBSERVATIONS ON THE ODES DESCRIPTIVE and ALLEGORICAL.

OBSERVATIONS, etc.

[99]

THE genius of COLLINS was capable of every degree of excellence in lyric poetry, and perfectly qualified for that high province of the muſe. Poſſeſſed of a native ear for all the varieties of harmony and modulation, ſuſceptible of the fineſt feelings of tenderneſs and humanity, but, above all, carried away by that high enthuſiaſm, which gives to imagination its ſtrongeſt colouring, he was, at once, capable of ſoothing the ear with the melody of his numbers, of influencing the paſſions by the force of his pathos, and of gratifying the fancy by the luxury of deſcription.

IN conſequence of theſe powers, but, more particularly, in conſideration of the laſt, he choſe ſuch ſubjects for his lyric eſſays as were moſt favourable for the indulgence of deſcription and allegory; where he could exerciſe his powers in moral and perſonal painting; where he could exert his invention in conferring new attributes on images or objects already known, and deſcribed, by a determinate number of characteriſtics; where he might give an uncommon eclat to his figures, by placing them in higher attitudes [100] or in more advantageous lights, and introduce new forms from the moral and intellectual world into the ſociety of inperſonated beings.

SUCH, no doubt, were the advantages he derived from the deſcriptive and allegorical nature of his themes.

IT ſeems to have been the whole induſtry of our author (and it is, at the ſame time, almoſt all the claim to moral excellence his writings can boaſt) to promote the influence of the ſocial virtues, by painting them in the faireſt and happieſt lights. ‘Melior fieri tuendo,’ would be no improper motto to his poems in general, but of his lyric poems it ſeems to be the whole moral tendency and effect. If, therefor, it ſhould appear to ſome readers that he has been more induſtrious to cultivate deſcription than ſentiment; it may be obſerved that his deſcriptions themſelves are ſentimental, and anſwer the whole end of that ſpecies of writing, by embelliſhing every feature of virtue, and by conveying, through the effects of the pencil, the fineſt moral leſſons to the mind.

HORACE ſpeaks of the fidelity of the ear in preſerence to the uncertainty of the eye; but if the mind receives conviction, it is, certainly, of very little importance [101] through what medium, or by which of the ſenſes it is conveyed. The impreſſions left on the imagination may, poſſibly, be thought leſs durable than the depoſits of the memory, but it may very well admit of a queſtion whether a concluſion of reaſon, or an impreſſion of imagination, will ſooneſt make its way to the heart. A moral precept conveyed in words is only an account of truth in its effects; a moral picture is truth exemplified; and which is moſt likely to gain on the affections, it may not be difficult to determine.

THIS, however, muſt be allowed, that thoſe works approach the neareſt to perfection which unite theſe powers and advantages; which at once influence the imagination, and engage the memory; the former by the force of animated, and ſtriking deſcription, the latter by a brief but harmonious conveyance of precept: thus, while the heart is influenced through the operation of the paſſions, or the fancy, the effect, which might otherwiſe have been tranſient, is ſecured by the co-operating power of the memory, which treaſures up in a ſhort aphoriſm the moral of the ſcene.

THIS is a good reaſon, and this, perhaps, is the only reaſon that can be given, why our dramatic performances ſhould generally end with a chain of couplets. In theſe the moral of the whole piece is uſually [102] conveyed, and that aſſiſtance which the memory borrows from rhyme, as it was probably the original cauſe of it, gives its uſefulneſs and propriety even there.

AFTER theſe apologies for the deſcriptive turn of the following odes, ſomething remains to be ſaid on the origin and uſe of allegory in poetical compoſition.

BY this we are not to underſtand the trope in the ſchools, which is defined aliud verbis, aliud ſenſu oſtendere, and of which Quintilian ſays, Uſus eſt, ut triſtia dicamus melioribus verbis, out bonae rei gratia quaedam contrariis ſignificemus, etc. It is not the verbal, but the ſentimental allegory, not allegorical expreſſion (which, indeed, might come under the term of metaphor) but allegorical imagery, that is here in queſtion.

WHEN we endeavour to trace this ſpecies of figurative ſentiment to its origin, we find it coeval with literature itſelf. It is generally agreed that the moſt ancient productions are poetical, and it is certain that the moſt ancient poems abound with allegorical imagery.

IF, then, it be allowed that the firſt literary productions were poetical, we ſhall have little or no difficulty in diſcovering the origin of allegory.

At the birth of letters, in the tranſition from hieroglyphical to literal expreſſion, it is not to be wondered if the cuſtom of expreſſing ideas by perſonal images [103] which, had ſo long prevailed, ſhould ſtill retain its influence on the mind, though the uſe of letters had rendered the practical application of it ſuperfluous. Thoſe who had been accuſtomed to exprefs ſtrength by the image of an elephant, ſwiftneſs by that of a panther, and courage by that of a lion, would make no ſcruple of ſubſtituting, in letters, the ſymbols for the ideas they had been uſed to repreſent.

HERE we plainly ſee the origin of allegorical expreſſion, that it aroſe from the aſhes of hieroglyphics; and if to the ſame cauſe we ſhould refer that figurative boldneſs of ſtyle and imagery which diſtinguiſh the oriental writings, we ſhall, perhaps, conclude more juſtly, than if we ſhould impute it to the ſuperior grandeur of the eaſtern genius.

FROM the ſame ſource with the verbal, we are to derive the ſentimental allegory, which is nothing more than a continuation of the metaphorical or ſymbolical expreſſion of the ſeveral agents in an action, or the different objects in a ſcene.

The latter moſt peculiarly comes under the denomination of allegorical imagery; and in this ſpecies of allegory we include the imperſonation of paſſions, affections, virtues and vices, etc. on account of which, principally, the following odes were properly termed by their author, allegorical.

[104] WITH reſpect to the utility of this figurative writing, the ſame arguments, that have been advanced in favour of deſcriptive poetry, will be of weight likewiſe here. It is, indeed from imperſonation, or, as it is commonly termed perſonification, that poetical deſcription borrows its chief powers and graces. Without the aid of this, moral and intellectual painting would be flat and unanimated, and even the ſcenery of material objects would be dull without the introduction of fictitious life.

THESE obſervations will be moſt effectually illuſtrated by the ſublime and beautiful odes that occaſioned them: in thoſe it will appear how happily this allegorical painting may be executed by the genuine powers of poetical genius, and they will not fail to prove its force and utility by paſſing through the imagination to the heart.

ODE TO PITY.

[105]
BY Pella's Bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy ſky-worn robes of tendereſt blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

The propriety of invoking Pity through the mediation of Euripides is obvious.—That admirable poet had the keys of all the tender paſſions, and, therefor, could not but ſtand in the higheſt eſleem with a writer of Mr. COLLIN'S ſenſibility.—He did,indeed, admire him as much, as MILTON profeſſedly did, and probably for the ſame reaſons; but we do not find that he has copied him ſo cloſely as the laſt mentioned poet has ſometimes done, and particularly in the opening of Samſon-Agoniſtes, which is an evident imitation of the following paſſage in the [...].

[...]
[...],
[...],
[...].—

[106] The "eyes of dewy light" is one of the happieſt ſtrokes of imagination, and may be ranked among thoſe expreſſions which ‘—give us back the image of the mind.’

Wild ARUN too has heard thy ſtrains,
And Echo, 'midſt thy native plains,
Been ſooth'd, with Pity's lute.

There firſt the wren thy myrtles ſhed
On gentleſt OTWAY'S infant head.—

Suffex, in which country the Arun is a ſmall river, had the honour of giving birth to OTWAY as well as to COLLINS. Both theſe poets became the objects of that pity by which their writings are diſtinguiſhed. There was a ſimilitude in their genius and in their ſufferings. There was a reſemblance in the misfortunes and in the diſſipation of their lives; and the circumſtances of their death cannot be remembered without pain.

THE thought of painting in the temple of Pity the hiſtory of human misfortunes, and of drawing the ſcenes from the tragic muſe, is very happy, and in every reſpect worthy the imagination of COLLINS.

ODE TO FEAR.

[107]

MR. C—who had often determined to apply himſelf to dramatic poetry, ſeems here, with the ſame view, to have addreſſed one of the principal powers of the drama, and to implore that mighty influence ſhe had given to the genius of Shakeſpear:

Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypreſs wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

In the conſtruction of this nervous ode the author has ſhewn equal power of judgment and imagination. Nothing can be more ſtriking than the violent and abrupt abbreviation of the meaſure in the fifth and ſixth verſes, when he feels the ſtrong influences of the power he invokes:

Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I ſee, I ſee thee near.

The editor of theſe poems has met with nothing in the ſame ſpecies of poetry, either in his own, or in [108] any other language, equal, in all reſpects, to the following deſcription of Danger.

Danger, whoſe limbs of giant-mold,
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who ſtalks his round and hideous ſorm,
Howling amidſt the midnight ſtorm,
Or throws him on the ridgy ſteep
Of ſome looſe, hanging rock to ſleep.

It is impoſſible to contemplate the image conveyed in the two laſt verſes without theſe emotions of terror it was intended to excite. It has, moreover, the entire advantage of novelty to recommend it; ſor there is too much originality in all the circumſtances to ſuppoſe that the author had in his eye that deſcription of the penal ſituation of Cataline in the ninth AEneid:

—Te, Catalina, minaci
Pendentem ſcopulo—

The archetype of the Engliſh poet's idea was in nature, and probably, to her alone he was indebted, for the thought. From her, likewiſe, he derived that magnificence of conception, that horrible grandeur of imagery diſplayed in the following lines.

[109]
And thoſe, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preſide;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:
On whom the ravening Brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait.

That nutritive enthuſiaſm, which cheriſhes the ſeeds of poetry, and which is, indeed, the only ſoil wherein they will grow to perfection, lays open the mind to ail the influences of fiction. A paſſion for whatever is greatly wild, or magnificent in the works of nature, ſeduces the imagination to attend to all that is extravagant, however unnatural. Milton was notoriouſly fond of high romance, and gothic diableries; and Collins, who in genius and enthuſiaſm bore no very diſtant reſemblance to Milton, was wholly carried away by the ſame attachments.

Be mine to read the viſions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told:
And, leſt thou meet my blaſted view,
HOLD EACH STRANGE TALE DEVOUTLY TRUE.

‘On that thrice hallow'd eve, etc. [110] There is an old traditionary ſuperſtition, that on St. Mark's eve the forms of all ſuch perſons as ſhall die within the enſuing year, make their ſolemn entry into the churches of their reſpective pariſhes, as St. Patrick ſwam over the channel, without their heads.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

[111]

THE meaſure of the ancient ballad ſeems to have been made choice of for this ode, on account of the ſubject, and it has, indeed, an air of ſimplicity, not altogether unaffecting.

By all the honey'd ſtore
On Hybla's thymy ſhore,
By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear,
By her whoſe love-lorn woe,
In evening muſings ſlow,
Sooth'd ſweetly ſad Electra's poet's ear.

This allegorical imagery of the honey'd ſtore, the blooms, and mingled murmurs of Hybla, alluding to the ſweetneſs and beauty of the attic poetry, has the fineſt and the happieſt effect: yet, poſſibly, it will bear a queſtion whether the ancient Greek tragedians had a general claim to ſimplicity in any thing more than the plans of their drama. Their language, at leaſt, was infinitely metaphorical; yet it muſt be owned that they juſtly copied nature and the paſſions, and ſo far, certainly, they were entitled to the palm of true ſimplicity: the following moſt beautiful ſpeech [112] of Polynices will be a monument of this ſo long as poetry ſhall laſt.

[...]
[...],
[...].
[...]
[...].
[...]
[...]
[...]. EURIP.
But ſtaid to ſing alone
To one diſtinguiſh'd throne.

The poet cuts off the prevalence of Simplicity among the Romans with the reign of Auguſtus; and indeed, it did not continue much longer, moſt of the compoſitions, after that date, giving into falſe and artificial ornament.

No more in hall or bower,
The paſſions own thy power,
Love, only love her forceleſs numbers mean.

In theſe lines the writings of the Provencial poets are principally alluded to, in which, ſimplicity is generally ſacrificed to the rapſodies of romantic love.

ODE On the Poetical Character.

[113]
‘Procul! O! procul eſte profani!’

THIS ode is ſo infinitely abſtracted and replete with high enthuſiaſm, that it will find few readers capable of entering into the ſpirit of it, or of reliſhing its beauties. There is a ſtyle of ſentiment as utterly unintelligible to common capacities, as if the ſubject were treated in an unknown language; and it is on the ſame account that abſtratcted poetry will never have many admirers. The authors of ſuch poems muſt be content with the approbation of thoſe heaven-favoured geniuſes, who, by a ſimiliarity of taſte and ſentiment, are enabled to penetrate the high myſterics of inſpired fancy, and to purſue the loftieſt flights of enthuſiaſtic imagination. Nevertheleſs the praiſe of the diſtinguiſhed few is certainly preferable to the applauſe of the undiſcerning million; for all praiſe is valuable in proportion to the judgment of thoſe who conſer it.

As the ſubject of this ode is uncommon, ſo are the ſtyle and expreſſion highly metaphorical and abſtracted; [114] thus the ſun is called "the rich-hair'd youth of morn," the ideas are termed "the ſhadowy tribes of mind," etc. We are ſtruck with the propriety of this mode of expreſſion here, and it aſſords us new proofs of the analogy that ſubſiſts between language and ſentiment.

NOTHING can be more loſtily imagined than the creation of the Ceſtus of Fancy in this ode: the allegorical imagery is rich and ſublime: and the obſervation that, the dangerous paſſions kept aloof, during the operation, is founded on the ſtricteſt philoſophical truth; for poetical fancy can exiſt only in minds that are perfectly ſerene, and in ſome meaſure abſtracted from the influences of ſenſe.

THE ſcene of Milton's "inſpiring hour" is perfectly in character, and deſcribed with all thoſe wildwood appearances, of which the great poet was ſo enthuſiaſtically fond:

I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which, as Milton lay, his evening ear,
Nigh ſpher'd in heaven its native ſtrains could hear

ODE, Written in the Year, MDCCXLVI.
ODE TO MERCY.

[115]

THE ode written in 1746, and the ode to Mercy, ſeem to have been written on the ſame occaſion, viz. the late rebellion; the ſormer in memory of thoſe heroes who fell in defence of their country, the latter to excite ſentiments of compaſſion in ſavour of thoſe unhappy and deluded wretches who became a ſacrifice to public juſtice.

THE language and imagery of both are very beautiful, but the ſeene and figures deſcribed in the ſtrophe of the ode to Mercy are exquiſitely ſtriking, and would afford a painter one of the fineſt ſubjects in the world.

ODE TO LIBERTY.

[116]

THE ancient ſtates of Greece, perhaps the only ones in which a perfect model of liberty ever exiſted, are naturaily brought to view in the opening of the poem.

Who ſhall awake the Spartan ſiſe,
And call in ſolemn ſounds to life,
The youths whoſe locks divinely ſpreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in ſullen hue, etc?

There is ſomething extremely bold in this imagery of the locks of the Spartan youths, and greatly ſuperior to that deſeription Jocaſta gives us of the hair of Polynices:

[...]
[...]

What new Alcaeus, facy-bleſt,
Shall ſing the ſword, in myrtles dreſt, etc?

This alludes to a fragment of Alcaeus ſtill remaining, in which the poet celebrates Harmodius and Ariſtogiton, [117] who ſlew the tyrant Hipparchus, and thereby reſtored the liberty of Athens.

THE fall of Rome is here moſt nervouſly deſcribed in one line: ‘With heavieſt ſound, a giant-ſtatue, fell.’ The thought ſeems altogether new, and the imitative harmony in the ſtructure of the verſe is admirable.

AFTER, bewailing the ruin of ancient liberty, the poet conſiders the influence it has retained, or ſtill retains, among the moderns; and here the republics of Italy naturally engage his attention.—Florence, indeed, only to be lamented on the account of loſing its liberty under thoſe patrons of letters, the Medicean family; the jealous Piſa, juſtly ſo called in reſpect to its long impatience and regret under the ſame yoke; and the ſmall Marino, which, however unreſpectable with regard to power or extent of territory, has, at leaſt, this diſtinction to boaſt, that it has preſerved its liberty longer than any other ſtate ancient or modern, having, without any revolution, retained its preſent mode of government near 1400 years. Moreover the patron ſaint who founded it, and from whom it takes its name, deſerves this poetical record, as he is, perhaps, the only ſaint that ever contributed to the eſtabliſhment of freedom.

[118]
Nor e'er her former pride relate,
To ſad Liguria's bleeding ſlate.

In theſe lines the poet alludes to thoſe ravages in the ſtate of Genoa, occaſioned by the unhappy diviſions of the Guelphs and Gibelines.

—When the ſavour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice.

For an account of the celebrated event referred to in theſe verſes, ſee Voltaire's Epiſtle to the King of Pruſſia.

Thoſe whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whoſe crown a Britiſh queen refus'd!

THE Flemings were ſo dreadfully oppreſſed by this ſanguinary general of Philip the ſecond, that they offered their ſovereignty to Elizabeth; but, happily for her ſubjects, ſhe had policy and magnanimity enough to refuſe it. Deformeaux, in his Abrége Chronologique de l' Hiſtoire d'Eſpagne, thus deſcribes the ſufferings of the Flemings. "Le Duc d' Albe achevoit de réduire les Flamands au déſeſpoir. Aprés avoir inondé les echafauts du ſang le plus noble et le plus précieux, il faſoit conſtruire des citadelles en divers [119] endroits, et vouloit établir l' Alcavala, ce tribute onéreux qui avoit été longtems en uſage parmi les Eſpagnols."

Abreg. Chron. Tom. IV.

—Mona,
Where thouſand Elfin ſhapes abide.

Mona is properly the Roman name of the Iſle of Angleſey, anciently ſo famous, for its Druids; but ſometimes, as in this place, it is given to the Iſle of Man. Both theſe iſles ſtill retain much of the genius of ſuperſtition, and are now the only places where there is the leaſt chance of finding a fairy.

ODE, To a Lady, on the Death of Colonel CHARLES ROSS in the Action at Fontenoy.
Written MAY, MDCCXLV.

[120]

THE iambic kind of numbers, in which this ode is conceived, ſeems as calculated for tender and plaintive ſubjects, as for thoſe where ſtrength or rapidity is required—This, perhaps, is owing to the repetition of the ſtrain in the ſame ſtanza; for ſorrow rejects variety, and affects an uniformity of complaint. It is needleſs to obſerve that this ode is replete with harmony, ſpirit, pathos: and there, ſurely, appears no reaſon why the ſeventh and eighth ſtanzas ſhould be omitted in that copy printed in Dodſley's collection of poems.

ODE TO EVENING.

[121]

THE blank ode has for ſome time ſolicited admiſſion into the Engliſh poetry; but its efforts hitherto ſeem to have been vain, at leaſt its reception has been no more than partial. It remains a queſtion, then, whether there is not ſomething in the nature of blank verſe leſs adapted to the lyric than to the heroic meaſure, ſince, though it has been generally received in the latter, it is yet unadopted in the former. In order to diſcover this, we are to conſider the different modes of theſe different ſpecies of poetry. That of the heroic is uniform; that of the lyric is various: and in theſe circumſtances of uniformity and variety, probably, lies the cauſe why blank verſe has been ſucceſsful in the one, and unacceptable in the other. While it preſented itſelf only in one form, it was familiarized to the ear by cuſtom; but where it was obliged to aſſume the different ſhapes of the lyric muſe, it ſeemed ſtill a ſtranger of uncouth figure, was received rather with curioſity than with pleaſure, and entertained without that eaſe, or ſatisfaction, which acquaintance and familiarity produce—Moreover, the heroic blank verſe obtained a ſanction of infinite importance to its general reception, when it [122] was adopted by one of the greateſt poets the world ever produced, and was made the vehicle of the nobleſt poem that ever was written. When this poem at length extorted that applauſe which ignorance and prejudice had united to withhold, the verſification ſoon found its imitators, and became more generally ſucceſsful than even in thoſe countries from whence it was imported. But lyric blank verſe has met with no ſuch advantages; for Mr. Collins, whoſe genius and judgment in harmony might have given it ſo powerful an effect, has left us but one ſpecimen of it in the Ode to Evening.

IN the choice of his meaſure he ſeems to have had in his eye Horace's ode to Pyrrha; for this ode bears the neareſt reſemblance to that mixt kind of the aſclepiad and pherecratic verſe; and that reſemblance in ſome degree reconciles us to the want of rhyme, while it reminds us of thoſe great maſters of antiquity, whoſe works had no need of this whimſical jingle of ſounds.

FROM the following paſſage one might be induced to think that the poet had it in view to render his ſubject and his verſification ſuitable to each other on this occaſion, and that, when he addreſſed himſelf to the ſober power of evening, he had thought proper to lay aſide the ſoppery of rhyme;

[123]
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breathe ſome ſoſten'd ſtrain,
Whoſe numbers ſtealing thro' thy dark'ning vale,
May not unſeemly with its ſtillneſs ſuit;
As, muſing ſlow, I hail
Thy genial, lov'd return!

But whatever were the numbers, or the verſification of this ode, the imagery and enthuſiaſm it contains could not fail of rendering it delightful. No other of Mr. Collins's odes is more generally characteriſtic of his genius. In one place we diſcover his paſſion for viſionary beings:

For when thy ſolding ſtar ariſing ſhews
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours and Elves
Who ſlept in buds the day,

And many a nymph, who wreaths her brows with fedge,
And ſheds the freſhening dew, and, lovelier ſtill,
The penſive pleaſures ſweet
Prepare thy ſhadowy car.

In another we behold his ſtrong bias to melancholy:

[124]
Then let me rove ſome wild and heathy ſcene,
Or find ſome ruin 'midſt its dreary dells,
Whoſe walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Then appears his taſte for what is wildly grand and magnificent in nature; when, prevented by ſtorms from enjoying his evening walk, he wiſhes for a ſituation,

That from the mountain's ſide,
Views wilds and ſwelling floods.

And, through the whole, his invariable attachment to the expreſſion of painting;

—and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual, duſky veil.

It might be a ſufficient encomium on this beautiful ode to obſerve, that it has been particularly admired by a lady to whom Nature has given the moſt perfect principles of taſte. She has not even complained of the want of rhyme in it, a circumſtance by no means unfavourable to the cauſe of lyric blank verſe; ſor ſurely, if a fair reader can endure an ode without bells and chimes, the maſculine genius may diſpenſe with them.

THE MANNERS. AN ODE.

[125]

FROM the ſubject and ſentiments of this ode, it ſeems not improbable that the author wrote it about the time when he left the Univerſity; when, weary with the purſuit of academical ſtudies, he no longer confined himſelf to the ſearch of theoretical knowlege, but commenced the ſcholar of humanity, to ſtudy nature in her works, and man in ſociety.

THE following farewell to ſcience exhibits a very juſt as well as ſtriking picture; for however exalted in the theory the Platonic doctrines may appear, it is certain that Platoniſm and Pyrrhoniſm are nearly allied:

Farewell the porch, whoſe roof is ſeen
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tiſſued veſt,
By Reaſon, Pride, and Fancy dreſt,
Comes like a bride, ſo trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's ſhade!

When the mind goes in purſuit of viſionary ſyſtems, it is not far from the regions of doubt; and the greater its capacity to think abſtractedly, to reaſon and refine, [126] the more it will be expoſed to and bewildered in uncertainty.—From an enthuſiaſtic warmth of temper, indeed, we may for a while be encouraged to perſiſt in ſome adopted ſyſtem; but when that enhuſiaſm, which is founded on the vivacity of the paſſions, gradually cools and dies away with them, the opinions it ſupported drop from us, and we are thrown upon the inhoſpitable ſhore of doubt.—A ſtriking proof of the neceſſity of ſome moral rule of wiſdom and virtue, and ſome ſyſtem of happineſs eſtabliſhed by unerring knowlege and unlimited power!

IN the poet's addreſs to Humour in this ode, there is one image of ſingular beauty and propriety. The ornaments in the hair of wit are of ſuch a nature, and diſpoſed in ſuch a manner, as to be perfectly ſymbolical and characteriſtic:

Me too amidſt thy band admit,
There, where the young-ey'd, healthful Wit,
(Whoſe jewels in his. criſped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to ſhare,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy ſide.

Nothing could be more expreſſive of wit, which conſiſts in a happy colliſion of comparative and relative [127] images, than this reciprocal reflection of light from the diſpoſition of the jewels.

O Humour, thou whoſe name is known
To Briton's favour'd iſle alone!

The author could only mean to apply this to the time when he wrote, ſince other nations had produced works of great humour as he himſelf acknowleges afterwards.

By old Miletus, etc.
By all you taught the Tuſcan maids, etc.

The Mileſian and Tuſcan romances were by no means diſtinguiſhed for humour; but as they were the models of that ſpecies of writing in which humour was afterwards employed, they are, probably for that reaſon only, mentioned here.

THE PASSIONS.
An Ode for Muſic.

[128]

IF the muſic, which was compoſed for this ode, had equal merit with the ode itſelf, it muſt have been the moſt excellent performance of the kind, in which poetry and muſic have, in modern times, united. Other pieces of the ſame nature have derived their greateſt reputation from the perfection of the muſic that accompanied them, having in themſelves little more merit than that of an ordinary ballad: but in this we have the whole ſoul and power of poetry—Expreſſion that, even without the aid of muſic, ſtrikes to the heart; and imagery, of power enough to tranſport the attention without the forceful alliance of correſponding ſounds! what, then, muſt have been the effect of theſe united!

IT is very obſervable that though the meaſure is the ſame, in which the muſical efforts of fear, anger and deſpair are deſcribed, yet by the variation of the cadence, the character and operation of each is ſtrongly expreſſed: thus particularly of deſpair:

[129]
With woeful meaſures wan Deſpair—
Low ſullen ſounds his grief beguil'd,
A ſolemn, ſtrange and mingled air,
'Twas ſad by fits; by ſtarts 'twas wild.

He muſt be a very unſkilful compoſer who could not catch the power of imitative harmony from theſe lines.

THE picture of Hope that follows this is beautiful almoſt beyond imitation. By the united powers of imagery and harmony, that delightful Being is exhibited with all the charms and graces that pleaſure and fancy have appropriated to her:

Relegat, qui ſemel percurrit;
Qui nunquam legit, legat.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes ſo fair,
What was thy delighted meaſure?
Still it whiſper'd promis'd pleaſure,
And bad the lovely ſeenes at diſtance hail!
Still would her touch the ſtrain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo ſtill thro' all the ſong;
And where her ſweeteſt theme ſhe choſe,
A ſoft reſponſive voice was heard at every cloſe,
And Hope enchanted ſmil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

[130] In what an exalted light does the above ſtanza place this great maſter of imagery and harmony! what varied ſweetneſs of numbers! what delicacy of judgment and expreſſion! how characteriſtically does Hope prolong her ſtrain, repeat her ſoothing cloſes, call upon her aſſociate Echo for the ſame purpoſes, and diſplay every pleaſing grace peculiar to her! ‘And Hope enchanted ſmil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.’

Legat, qui nunquam legit;
Qui ſemel percurrit, relegat.

The deſcriptions of joy, jealouſy and revenge are excellent, though not equally ſo; thoſe of melancholy and chearfulneſs are ſuperior to every thing of the kind; and, upon the whole, there may be very little hazard in aſſerting that this is the fineſt ode in the Engliſh language.

AN EPISTLE
Addreſſed to Sir THOMAS HANMER, on his Edition of SHAKESPEAR'S Works.

[131]

THIS poem was written by our author at the univerſity, about the time when Sir Thomas Hanmer's pompous edition of Shakeſpear was printed at Oxford. If it has not ſo much merit as the reſt of his poems, it has ſtill more than the ſubject deſerves. The verſification is eaſy and genteel, and the alluſions always poetical. The character of the poet Fletcher in particular is very juſtly drawn in this epiſtle.

DIRGE In CYMBELINE.
ODE, ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

MR. COLLINS had ſkill to complain. Of that mournful melody and thoſe tender images which are the diſtinguiſhing excellencies of ſuch pieces as bewail departed friendſhip, or beanty, he was [132] an almoſt unequalled maſter. He knew perfectly to exhibite ſuch circumſtances, peculiar to the objects, as awaken the influences of pity; and while, from his own great ſenſibility, he felt what he wrote, he naturally addreſſed himſelf to the feelings of others.

To read ſuch lines as the following, all beautiful and tender as they are, without correſponding emotions of pity, is ſurely impoſſible: ‘The tender thought on thee ſhall dwell.’

Each lonely ſcene ſhall thee reſtore,
For thee the tear be duly ſhed;
Belov'd, 'till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, 'till Pity's ſelf be dead.

The ode on the death of Thomſon ſeems to have been written in an excurſion to Richmond by water. The rural ſcenery has a proper effect in an ode to the memory of a poet, much of whoſe merit lay in deſcriptions of the ſame kind, and the appellations of "Druid" and "meek nature's child" are happily characteriſtic. For the better underſtanding of this ode, it is neceſſary to remember that Mr. Thomſon lies buried in the church of Richmond.

THE END.
Notes
*
It ſeems to have been in one of theſe intervals, that he was viſited by an ingenious friend, who tells us he found him with a book in his hand, and being aſked what it was, he anſwered, that "he had but one book, but that was the beſt." It was the New-Teſtament in Engliſh.
*
That theſe flowers are found in very great abundance in ſome of the provinces of Perſia; ſee the modern hiſtory of Mr. Salmon.
A river in Suſſex.
*
Aeſchylus.
Jocaſta.
*
Florimel. See Spenſer Leg. 4th.
*
The Dutch, amongſt whom there are very ſevere penalties for thoſe who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almoſt all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are ſaid to entertain a ſuperſtitious ſentiment, that if the whole ſpecies of them ſhould become extinct, they ſhould loſe their liberties.
This tradition is mentioned by ſeveral of our old hiſtorians. Some naturaliſts too have endeavoured to ſupport the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correſpondent diſpoſition of the two oppoſite coaſts. I don't remember that any poetical uſe has been hitherto made of it.
*
There is a tradition in the iſle of Man, that a mermaid, becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the ſhore, and opened her paſſion to him, but was received with a coldneſs, occaſioned by his horror and ſurprize at her appearance. This however was ſo miſconſtrued by the ſea-lady, that in revenge for his treatment of her, ſhe puniſhed the whole iſland, by covering it with a miſt, ſo that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the ſea, or were on a ſudden wrecked upon its cliſſs.
*
Alluding to the Mileſian tales, ſome of the earlieſt romances.
Cervantes.
Monſier Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.
*
The Oedipus of Sophocles.
Julius II. the immediate predeceſſor of Leo X.
*
Their charactars are thus diſtinguiſhed by Mr. Dryden.
About the time of Shakeſpear, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, fix hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themſelves in general to the correct improvement of the ſtage, which was almoſt totally diſregarded by thoſe of our own country, Johnſon excepted.
The favourite author of the elder Corneille.
*
Tempus erit Turno, magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum pallanta, etc.
*
See the tragedy of Julius Caeſar.
Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyſſey.
*
The harp of AEOLUS of which ſee a deſcription in the CASTLE Of INDOLENCE.
*
RICHMOND Church.
*
Mr. Thomſon reſided in the neighbourhood of Richmond ſometime before his death.
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Citation Suggestion for this Object
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5432 The poetical works of Mr William Collins With memoirs of the author and observations on his genius and writings By J Langhorne. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5D44-0