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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,
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!



O thou, by Nature taught

To breathe her genuine thought,
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;

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,
O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call !



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,
Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

& 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,
No equal haunt allured thy future feet.


O sister meek of Truth,

To my admiring youth,
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse !

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,
You loved her hills, and led her laureat band :

But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish'd throne ;
And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.


No more, in hall or bower,
The Passions own thy power ;
Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean :

For thou hast left her shrine;

Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.


Though taste, though genius, bless
To some divine excess,


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,
I only seek to find thy temperate vale;

Where oft my reed might sound

To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.

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