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Allow'd with thee to dwell :

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows There waste the mournful lamp of night,

with sedge, Till, Virgin, thou again delight

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier To hear a British shell !

still, William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

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, 888.-ODE.

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

Or, if chill blnstering winds, or driving rain, How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, By all their country's wishes blest!

That from the mountain's side,
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,

Views wilds, and swelling floods, She there shall dress a sweeter sod

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

spires; By fairy hands their knell is rung;

And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er

all By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,

Thy dewy fingers draw To bless the turf that wraps their clay;

The gradual dusky veil. And Freedom shall awhile repair,

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he To dwell a weeping hermit there!

wont, William Collins:--Born 1720, Died 1756. And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest

Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with 889.-ODE TO EVENING.

leaves; If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest

Affrights thy shrinking train, ear,

And rudely rends thy robes ;
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd Peace, Sun

Thy gentlest influence own,
Sits in yon western tint, whose cloudy skirts,

And love thy favourite name!
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed :

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756. 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

890.-TO THE PASSIONS.
His small but sullen horn,

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,

While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

Throng'd around her magic cell,
Now teach me, maid composed,

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
To breathe some soften'd strain,

Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy

By turns they felt the glowing mind darkening vale,

Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined ;
May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
As, musing slow, I hail

Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspired,
Thy genial loved return!

From the supporting myrtles round

They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
For when thy folding-star arising shows And, as they oft had heard apart
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Each (for Madness ruled the hour
Who slept in buds the day,

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,

E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes on fire,

In lightnings 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 beguiled ; 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 promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance

hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong ;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She callid on Echo still, through all the song ;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every

close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved 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; And though sometimes, each dreary pause

between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild uvalter'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-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sate retired, And, from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive

soul : And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled

measure stole,
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond

delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of Peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'a was its sprightlier

tone, When Cheerfulness, 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! The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste

eyed Queen,
Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ;
And Sport leapt up, and seized 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 loved the

best; They would have thought who heard the

strain They saw, in Tempé'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 framed with Mirth a gay fantastic

round : Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un.

bound; And he, amidst his frolic 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 ancient lyre aside ?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard ;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, 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;
E'en all at once together found,
Cæcilia's mingled world of sound-
O bid our vain endeavour cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece :
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate !

William Collins.--Born 1720, Died 1756.

891.-DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing 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 Fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell ; Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; Each lonely scene shall thee restore;

For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

Willian Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering

near ?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,

And joy desert the blooming year.
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 ! And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! 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. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : “Oh! vales and wild woods," shall he say, “In yonder grave your Druid lies!”

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

892.-ODE ON THE DEATH OF

THOMSON. 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.
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here,

And, while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's eår

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid the gentle spirit rest!
And oft, as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire

And ʼmid the varied landscape weep.
But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,

Ah ! what will every dirge avail ; Or, tears, which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail ?

893.—THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest Worth - neglected

lies While partial Fame doth with her blasts

adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp dis

guise; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise : Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies,

Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity.

In every village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to

Fame, There dwells in lowly shed, and mean

attire, A matron old, whom we School-mistress

name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to

tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance

pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame;

And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely

shent. And all in sight doth rise a bírchen tree, Which Learning near her little dome did

stowe; Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches

flow;

own

1

And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; A russet stole was o'er her shoulders
For not a wind might curl the leaves that thrown;
blew,

A rnsset kirtle fenced the nipping air ; But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; beat low;

'Twas her own country bred the flock so And as they look'd they found their horrour fair! grew,

'Twas her labour did the fleece And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the prepare ; view.

And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged

around, So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)

Through pious awe, did term it passing A lifeless phantom near a gurden placed ;

rare; So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,

For they in gaping wonderment abound, Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;

And think, no doubt, she been the greatest They start, they stare, they wheel, they

wight on ground. look aghast; Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,

Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt forNe vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

sooth, Near to this dome is found a patch so

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ;

Yet these she challenged, these she held green, On which the tribe their gambols do dis

right dear :

Ne would esteem him act as mought play; And at the door imprisoning-board is seen,

behove,

Who should not honour'd eld with these Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray;

revere : Eager, perdie, to bask in gunny day!

For never title yet so mean could prove,

But there was eke a mind which did that The noises intermixed, which thence re

title love. sound, Do Learning's little tenement betray ; Where sits the dame, disguised in look

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, profound,

The plodding pattern of the busy dame; And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her

Which, ever and anon, impell’a by need, wheel around.

Into her school, begirt with chickens, camo!

Such favour did her past deportment
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,

claim :
Emblem right meet of decency does yield : And, if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, Fragment of bread, she would collect the
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field :

same;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does For well she knew, and quaintly could ex-
wield

pound, Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb entwined,

she found. With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill’d; And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction Herbs too she knew, and well of each could join'd,

speak And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement That in her garden sipp'a the silvery dew; unkind.

Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy

streak; Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, pourtray'a,

Of grey renown, within those borders grew :
The childish faces of old Eol's train;

The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue ;

The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;
How then would fare or Earth, or Sky, or And more I fain would sing, disdaining here

to rhyme. Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein ?

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, And were not she rebellious breasts to That gives dim eyes to wander leagues quell,

around; And were not she her statutes to maintain, And pungent radish, biting infants' tongue; The cot no more, I ween, were deem’d the And plantain ribb’d, that heals the reaper's cell,

wound; Where comely peace of mind, and decent order And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie

found;

array'd,

Main,

dwell.

L

And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, ere-while, in arid bundles bound,

To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle

rare perfume.

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom

crown'a The daintiest garden of the proudest peer; Ere, driven from its envied site, it found A sacred shelter for its branches here; Where edged with gold its glittering skirts

appear, Oh wassel days! O customs meet and

well! Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere :

Simplicity then sought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and

lordling dwell.

Right well she knew each temper to

descry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to

raise ; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of

praise, And other some with baleful sprig she

'frays : E'en absent, she the reins of power doth

hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd

she sways : Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks

behold, 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene

unfold.

Lo now with state she utters the command ! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in

hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger wet the letters fair: The work so gay that on their back is

seen, St. George's high achievements does

declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing

been, Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I

ween!

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent

eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did

mete, If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did

cleave, But in her garden found a summer-seat: Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foe-men did a song entreat,

All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had

they to sing. For she was just, and friend to virtuous

lore, And pass'd much time in truly virtuous

deed; And in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore The times, when Truth by Popish rage did

bleed ; And tortuous death was true Devotion's

meed; And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her

creed ; And lawny saints in smouldering flames did

burn: Ah ! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should

e'er return.

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the

beam Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write: As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. For brandishing the rod, she doth begin To loose the brogues, the stripling's late

delight! And down they drop; appears his dainty

skin, Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin.

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem By the sharp tooth of cankering eld de

faced, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is

placed, The matron sate ; and some with rank she

graced, (The source of children's and of courtiers'

pride!) edress'd affronts, for vile affronts there R pass'd;

And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them

betide.

Oruthful scene! when from a nook

obscure, His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure : She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free: Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny (If gentle pardon could with dames agree).

To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wings her so that all for pity she could

dye. No longer can she now her shrieks com

mand; And hardly she forbears, through awful

fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous

hand, To stay harsh Justice in its mid career.

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