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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 crowd 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
Proclaim her reign restor❜d:
Till William* seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the sated sword.

* Duke of Cumberland, second son of George II., at that time Commander

of the British forces.-C.

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 insulting 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 repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.

ODE TO EVENING.❤

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,†
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear
Like thine own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,

O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright hair'd sun,
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

The measures of this admired Ode are the same which Milton used in his translation of Horace, B. 1, 0.5; but Lyric poetry, without rhyme, not being suitable to the English taste, it has very rarely been attempted.-C. + might we but hear

Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops.-Milton's Comus, v. 340.

With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed 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 soften'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!

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

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car.

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn.-Milton's Lycides, v. 21.

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 my 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:

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrieking train,

And rudely rends thy robes:

So long regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

ODE TO PEACE.

O Thou, 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 bade 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!

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