Shall leave their sainted rest, Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, But lo where, sunk in deep despair, Her matted tresses madly spread, To every sod, which wraps the dead, Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground, 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, Where'er from time thou court'st relief, Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale ODE TO EVENING.❤ IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,† Thy springs, and dying gales, O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright hair'd sun, 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, Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers stealing thro' thy dark'ning vale, As musing slow, I hail For when thy folding-star arising shows 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, By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustring winds, or driving rain, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, 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! 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, And, while around her ports rejoice, |