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O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart: Thy withering power inspired each mournful
line: Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine! 45
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, Heardrowning 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'erawed, In that thrice hallow'd eve, abroad, When ghosts, as cottage maids believe, 60 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 possess'd The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast !
By all that from thy prophet broke,
ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
O thou, by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought,
Who first, on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!
. Thou, who, with hermit heart,
Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall;
But comest a decent maid,
In attic robe array'd,
By all the honey'd store
On Hybla's thymy shore ; By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear;
By her whose lovelorn woe,
In evening musings slow,
& The åndwv, or nightingale, for which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness.
By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep, In warbled wanderings, round thy green retreat ;
On whose enameld side,
When holy Freedom died,
O sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth,
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though Beauty cull’d the wreath, Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. 30
While Rome could none esteem
But virtue's patriot theme,
But staid to sing alone
No more, in hall or bower,
For thou hast left her shrine;
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Though taste, though genius, bless
Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole ;
What each, what all supply,
May court, may charm, our eye; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty task,
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,