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Yet still, if truth those beams infuse
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
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, retired in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
How the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd ?
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.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
T'hat near her inmost altar stand!
Now sooth 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 storins grow calon ;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain'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 !
ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL CHARLES ROSS IN THE ACTION
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 from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful 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
every sweetest turf shall bind, And Peace protect the shade.
O'er him, whose doom thy virtùes grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head !
And, fallen 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 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.
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 bis 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.
t might we but hearOr sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops.-Milton's Comus, v. 340.