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The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield, The birds, dismiss'd, (while you remain,) Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field.

Bore back their empty car again :
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise,

Then
you,

with looks divinely mild, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.

In every heavenly feature smil'd,
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine, And ask’d, what new complaints I made,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine.

And why I call'd you to my aid ?
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

What phrenzy in my bosom rag'd,
When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,

And by what care to be assuag'd ? The brittle forest into atoms flies,

What gentle youth I would allure, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,

Whom in my artful toils secure ? And in a spangled shower the prospect ends :

Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,

Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?
And by degrees unbind the wintery charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,

Though now he shuns thy longing arms, And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees :

He soon shall court thy slighted charms; Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads (meads : Though now thy offerings he despise, Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious He soon to thee shall sacrifice; While here enchanted gardens to him rise,

Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn, And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,

And be thy victim in his turn.
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,

Celestial visitant, once more
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,

Thy needful presence I implore ! And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear.

In pity come and ease my grief, A tedious road the weary wretch returns,

Bring my distemper'd soul relief :
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.

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WILLIAM COLLINS. .

WILLIAM COLLINS, a distinguished modern poet, j of disorder in his mind, perceptible

to any but bin, was born at Chichester, in 1720 or 1721, where his self. He was reading the New Testament."! father exercised the trade of a hatter. He received have but one book," said he, " but it is the best." his education at Winchester College, whence he en- He was finally consigned to the care of his sister, in tered as a commoner of Queen's College, Oxford. whose arms he finished his short and melancholy In 1741, he procured his election into Magdalen course, in the year 1756. college as a demy; and it was here that he wrote It is from his Odes, that Collins derives his chien his poetical “ Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer,” poetical fame; and in compensation for the negler and his “ Oriental Eclogues ;" of both which with which they were treated at their first appear

. pieces the success was but moderate. In 1744, he ance, they are now almost universally regarded as came to London as a literary adventurer, and va- the first productions of the kind in our language rious were the projects which he formed in this with respect to vigour of conception, boldness and capacity. In 1746, however, he ventured to lay variety of personification, and genuine warmth of before the public a volume of “ Odes, Descriptive feeling. They are well characterised in an extent and Allegorical;” but so callous was the national prefixed to his works in an ornamented edition part taste at this time, that their

sale did not pay for the lished by Cadell and Davies, with which we shall printing. Collins, whose spirit was high, returned conclude this article. “ He will be acknowledged to the bookseller his copy-money, burnt all the un- (says the author) to possess imagination, sweetness sold copies, and as soon as it lay in his power, in- bold and figurative language. His numbers dwel demnified him for his small loss; yet among these on the ear, and easily fix themselves in the memory odes, were many pieces which now rank among the His vein of sentiment is by turns tender and lofty

, finest lyric compositions in the language. After always tinged with a degree of melancholy, but Det this mortification, he obtained from the booksellers possessing any claim to originality. His originalit a small sum for an intended translation of Aristotle's consists in his manner, in the highly figurative gart Poetics, and paid a visit

to an uncle, Lieutenant- in which he clothes abstract ideas, in the felicity d colonel Martin, then with the army in Germany. his expressions, and

his skill in embodying ideal The Colonel dying soon after, left Collins a legacy creations. He had much of the mysticism of poetry, of 20001., a sum which raised him to temporary and sometimes became obscure by aiming tin opulence; but he now soon became incapable of pressions stronger than he had clear and well-defined every mental exertion. Dreadful depression of ideas to support. Had his life been prolonged, and spirits was an occasional attendant on his malady, with life had he enjoyed that ease which is necessary for which he had no remedy but the bottle. It was for the undisturbed exercise of the faculties

, be about this time, that it was thought proper to con- would probably have risen far above most of his fine him in a receptacle of lunatics. Dr. Johnson contemporaries." paid him a visit at Islington, when there was nothing

ODE TO PITY. ()

THOU, the friend of man assign’d,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,

And charm his frantic woe:
When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,

His wild unsated foe!

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant side,

Deserted stream, and mute ?
Wild Arun * too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, 'midst my native plains,

Be sooth'd by Pity's lute.

By Pella's bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,

Receive my humble rite :
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,

And eyes of dewy light!

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shown;
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by arts

Thy turtles mix'd their own.

A river in Sussex.

Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride design :
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat

In all who view the shrine.

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous queen t,

Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.

O Fear! I know thee by my throbbing heart,

Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line; Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.

There Picture's toil shall well relate,
How Chance, or hard involving Fate,

O'er mortal bliss prevail :
The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And, sighing, prompt her tender hand

With each disastrous tale.

ANTISTROPHE.

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Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last ? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ? Or in some hollow'd seat, 'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought! Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted

thought,
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told.

And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men !

O thou, whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare'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 !

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I see,

Cuov, to whom the world unknown
Nith all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who seest appall'd th’ unreal scene,
Vhile Fancy lifts the veil between :
Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!

I see thee near. know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye! ike thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly. or, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Janger, whose limbs of giant mould Vhat mortal eye can fixt behold ? Tho stalks his round, a hideous form, Towling amidst the midnight storm, r throws him on the ridgy steep f some loose hanging rock to sleep : nd with him thousand phantoms join'd, ho prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind : ad those, the fiends, who, near allied, er Nature's wounds and wrecks preside; hile Vengeance, in the lurid air, fts her red arm, expos’d and bare : I whom that ravening brood of Fate, 10 lap the blood of Sorrow, wait; 10, Fear, this ghastly train can see, d look not madly wild, like thee?

ODE.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod, Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

EPODE

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
Their Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice, The grief-full Muse address'd her infant tongue; 2 maids and matrons, on her aweful voice, ülent and pale, in wild amazement hung.

he, the bard * who first invok'd thy name, Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. : who is he, whom later garlands grace, Vho left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove, h trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Vhere thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove ?

† Jocasta.

S

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,

The Muse shall still, with social grief,
ODE, TO A LADY,

Her gentlest promise keep:

E'en humble Harting's cottag'd vale
ON THE DEATH OF COL. CHARLES ROSS, IN THE

Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.
ACTION AT FONTENOY,

Written May, 1745.
WHILE, lost to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,

ODE TO EVENING.
And mourns the fatal day :
While staind with blood he strives to tear Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Unseemly from his sea-green hair

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
The wreaths of cheerful May:

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;
The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise, O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sua
Your faithful hours attend :

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,

With brede ethereal wove,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,

O'erhang his wavy bed:
And points the bleeding friend.

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey'd bal

, By rapid Scheld's descending wave

With short shrill shriek Aits by on leathern wing,
His country's vows shall bless the grave,

Or where the beetle winds
Where'er the youth is laid:

His small but sullen horn,
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
And Peace protect the shade.

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid compos'd,
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,

To breathe some soften'd strain,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head;

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening sale
And, fall'n to save his injur'd land,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
Imperial Honour's awefül hand

As, musing slow, I bail
Shall point his lonely bed !

Thy genial lov'd return !
The warlike dead of every age,

For when thy folding-star arising shows
Who fill the fair recording page,

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
Shall leave their sainted rest :

The fragrant hours, and elves
And, half-reclining on his spear,

Who slept in buds the day,
Each wondering chief by turns appear
To hail the blooming guest.

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge,
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,

The pensive pleasures sweet
And gaze with fix'd delight :

Prepare thy shadowy car.
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
And wish th' avenging tight.

Or find some ruin ʼmidst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more aweful nod
But, lo! where, sunk in deep despair,

By thy religious gleams.
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Her matted tresses madly spread,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
To every sod which wraps the dead,

That from the mountain's side
She turns her joyless eyes.

Views wilds and swelling floods
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
Till notes of triumph bursting round

And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Proclaim her reign restor’d:

Thy dewy fingers draw
Till William seek the sad retreat,

The gradual dusky veil.
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he work

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
If, weak to soothe so soft an heart,

While Summer loves to sport
These pictur'd glories nought impart,

Beneath thy lingering light:
To dry thy constant tear :
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,

While sallow fills Autumn thy lap with leaves
Expos’d and pale thou see'st him lie,

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Wild war insulting near :

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes :

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STROPHE.

So long, regardful of thy quie: rule,

Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, With those to whom the stork * is dear :
Thy gentlest influence own,

Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
And love thy favourite name!

Whose crown a British queen refus'd!
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holier name alone remains;
The perfect spell shall then avail,

Hail, nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail !
ODE TO LIBERTY.

ANTISTROPHE.

Beyond the measure vast of thought, Who shall awake the Spartan fife,

The works, the wizard Time has wrought! And call in solemn sounds to life,

The Gaul, 't is held of antique story, The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand +, Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,

No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary, At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, He pass'd with unwet feet through all our land. Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view ?

To the blown Baltic then, they say, What new Alceus, fancy-blest,

The wild waves found another way, Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,

Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing, Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?) A wide wild storm e'en Nature's self confounding,

Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted

surprise. wound!

This pillar'd earth so firm and wide, O goddess, in that feeling hour,

By winds and inward labours torn, When most its sounds would court thy ears, In thunders dread was push'd aside, Let not my shell's misguided power

And down the shouldering billows borne. E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.

And see, like gems, her laughing train, No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,

The little isles on every side, How Rome, before thy face,

Mona , once hid from those who search the main, With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,

Where thousand elfin shapes abide, Push'd by a wild and artless race,

And Wight, who checks the westering tide, From off its wide ambitious base,

For thee consenting Heaven has each bestow'd, When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, A fair attendant on her sovereign pride :

And all the blended work of strength and grace To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,

With many a rude repeated stroke, (broke. For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode! And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments

SECOND ETODE.

IPODE.

Then too, 't is said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,

Yet, e'en where'er the least appear'd
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, ʼmidst the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They saw, by what escap'd the storm,
How wondrous rose her perfect form;
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty master pour'd his soul ;
For sunny Florence, seat of Art,
Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,
Till they, whom Science lov'd to name,
(0, who could fear it!) quench'd her flame.
And, lo, an humbler relic laid
In jealous Pisa's olive shade!
See small Marino joins the theme,
Though least, not last in thy esteem;
Strike, louder strike th' ennobling strings
To those, whose merchants sons were kings;
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride :
Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure:
Nor e'er her former pride relate
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek,
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak :
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dre ud,
The ravening eagle northware]

The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe penalties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their liberties.

+ This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists, too, have endeavoured to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I do not remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it.

There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mermaid, becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horrour and surprise at her appearance. This, however, was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who attempted to carry on any coinmerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.

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