Of passion swelling with distress and pain, To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops Of cordial Pleasure? Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise Of Care and Envy, sweet Remembrance soothes, With Virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture. - Ask the crowd, Which flies impatient from the village walk To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast Some hapless bark; while sacred Pity melts The gen'ral eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; While ev'ry mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and, pointing where the waves Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud, As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms For succor, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down. O! deemest thou indeed No kind endearment here by Nature giv'n To mutual Terror and Compassion's tears? No sweetly-swelling softness, which attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs The big distress? or wouldst thou then exchange 'Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod, And bears aloft his gold-invested front, And says within himself, "I am a king, And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of Woe Intrude upon mine ear?"- The baleful dregs Of these late ages, this inglorious draught Of servitude and folly, have not yet, Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world! Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame The native honors of the human soul, Nor so effac'd the image of its sire. ON TASTE. [From Pleasures of the Imagination. SAY, what is Taste, but the internal pow'rs Active and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick dis gust From things deform'd, or disarrang'd, or gross In species? This nor gems, nor stores of gold, Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; But God alone, when first his active hand Imprints the sacred bias of the soul. He, Mighty Parent! wise and just in all, Free as the vital breeze, or light of heav'n, Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain Who journeys homeward from a summer-day's Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds O'er all the western sky! Full soon, I ween, His rude expression, and untutor❜d airs, Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold The form of Beauty smiling at his heart, How lovely! how commanding! But though Heav'n In every breast hath sown these early seeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, Without enliv'ning suns and genial show'rs, And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Or yield the harvest promis'd in its spring. The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild; Another sighs for harmony and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires The arch of heav'n, and thunders rock the ground; When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, And Ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky; Amid the mighty uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakespeare looks abroad From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs, All on the margin of some flow'ry stream, To spread his careless limbs, amid the cool Of plantane shades, and to the list'ning deer The tale of slighted vows and Love's disdain Resounds, soft warbling, all the livelong day. Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the Of pageant Honor, can seduce to leave Those everblooming sweets, which from the store Of Nature fair Imagination culls, though not all What Of mortal offspring can attain the height Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state: Yet Nature's care to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honors his. What'er adorns The princely dome, the column, and the arch, The breathing marbles, and the sculptur'd gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring Distils her dew, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wing; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascend, but whence his bosom can par take Fresh pleasure unreproved. WILLIAM COLLINS. 1721-1759. [WILLIAM COLLINS was born at Chichester on Christmas Day, 1721. It is believed that he went for a time to the Prebendal School of that city; and in 1733 he entered Winchester College, then under Dr. Burton. Before he left school he had written the Persian Eclogues (which in their later editions are called Oriental Eclogues); and he had printed a so-called sonnet in the "Gentleman's Magazine." In 1740 he entered as commoner of Queen's College, Oxford, there being no vacancy at New College; and next year he obtained a demyship at Magdalen. The Persian Eclogues were published in 1742; next year came the Epistle to Sir T. Hanmer; and in 1744 he seems to have left Oxford for London, where he found a true friend in Johnson. His Odes, which he once meant to have published jointly with those of his old schoolfellow Joseph Warton, appeared alone in 1747. After this he went to live at Richmond, where he saw much of Thomson, Armstrong, and others of that company. In 1749 he wrote the Ode on the Death of Thomson, and the Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands. Soon afterwards he was attacked by the brain-disease from which, with certain intervals of partial recovery, he suffered for the rest of his life. His last years were spent at Chichester under the care of his sister, Mrs. Sempill. He died in 1759.] THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE. [Written in the beginning of the year 1746.] By fairy hands their knell is rung, ODE TO FEAR. THOU, to whom the world unknown, Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear! I know thy hurried step, thy haggard Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly; Danger, whose limbs of giant mould Or throws him on the ridgy steep While Vengeance in the lurid air Thou, who such weary lengths has Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, 'Gainst which the big waves beat, Dark pow'r, with shudd'ring meek sub Be mine, to read the visions old, O thou whose spirit most possess'd 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; His cypress wreath my meed decree, And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee. ODE TO EVENING. IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, O nymph reserved, while now the brighthair'd Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With braid ethereal wove, Now air is hush'd, save where the weakeyed 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 borne in heedless hum; Now teach me, maid composed Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved 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,' 1 The water-nymphs, Naiads, are so crowned. And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, That from the mountain's side, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest While summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves: Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, THE PASSIONS. 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, |