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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,
Your faithful hours attend :
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
Where'er the youth is laid :
And Peace protect the shade.
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
And bend the pensive head!
Shall point his lonely bed !
The warlike dead of every age,
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,
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,
Impatient Freedom lies!
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground,
Proclaim her reign restor'd :
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,
To dry thy constant tear :
Wild war insulting near :
Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
Her gentlest promise keep:
And bid her shepherds weep.
ODE TO EVENING.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Like thine own solemn springs,
O Nymph resery’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 poeiry, without rhyme, not being suitable to the English taste, it has very rarely been attempted.-C.
*+ might we but hearOr sourd of pastoral reed with oaten stops.-311lton's Comus, v. 340.
With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat,
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
Whose numbers stealing thro' thy dark’ning vale,
As musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding-star arising shows
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
The pensive Pleasures sweet
* What time the gray-Ay winds her sultry horn.-Milton's Lycides, v, 21,
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Whose walls more awful nod
Or if chill blustring winds, or driving rain,
That from the mountain's side,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
Thy dewy fingers draw
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
While Summer loves to sport
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Affrights thy shrieking train,
So long regardful of thy quiet rule,
Thy gentlest influence own,