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And look not madly wild, like thee?
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last?
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 seamen's 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 Shakespeare'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;
cypress wreath my meed decree,

And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee. COLLINS..


Ode to Truths

SAY, will no white-rob'd Son of Light,
Swift darting from his heav'nly height,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand ;
Here wave his amber locks; unfold
His pinions cloth'd with downy gold;
Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?
And you, ye host of Saints, for ye
have known
Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze


Tho' now ye circle yon eternal throne, With harpings high of inexpressive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of Fate?

'Tis silence all. No Son of Light Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height: No train of radiant Saints descend. << Mortals, in vain ye hope to find, If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind, Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend. » So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound Burst from the centre of her burning throne: Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre: crown'd:

A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone.
So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear:
With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear..
«Attend, ye Sons of Men; attend and say,
Does not enough of my refulgent ray
Break thro' the veil of your mortality!
Say, does not reason in this form descry
Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass
The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing:

Shall then your earth born daughters vie
With me? Shall she, whose brightest eye
But emulates the diamond's blaze,
Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume,.
Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's

Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,


Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm. prove her contest vain. Life's little day Shall pass, and she is while I gone; Flush'd with the bloom of youth thro' Heav'n's eternal year.


« Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung,, Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I shone amid the heav'nly throng; These eyes beheld Creation's day, This voice began the choral lay, And taught Archangels their triumphant song. Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth, Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread, Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, And Ocean heave on its extended bed;

Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky, The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly. « Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face, And, as he rose, the high behest was given 'That I alone, of all the host of heav'n, 'Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth:' Thus the Almighty spake; he spake and call'd me Truth. » MASON

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Ode to Fancy.

Parent of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock..

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O Nymph with loosely flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy fight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landscape lies

Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes!.
O loves of the desert, hail!

Say in what deep and pathless vale
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water you reside,
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,

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Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke Where never human art appear'd,

Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne:

Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest :
Then lay me by the haunted stream
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser thro' a fairy grove;
"Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
By the swetly soothing sound!

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Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead Sometimes thro' the yellow mead, Where joy and white-rob'd Peace resort And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily crowned heads; Where laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads; Where Echo walks steep hills among, List'ning to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ:

Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,

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That loves to fold her arms and sigh!.
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults and tombs
Where each sad night some virgin comes
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegrooms urn to seek :
Or to some Abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's show'rs,
The naked beggar shiv'ring lies,
Whilst whistling tempests round her rise,.
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall..
Now let us louder strike the lyre,.
For my heart glows with martial fire,
I fee!, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;.
The trumpets' clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear;
'Give me another horse, 'I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage-What spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?

"Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,

Transports me to the thickest war,

There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed,,
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield!

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun;
The pangs of absence, O remove,,

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