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ODE TO PITY.
THOU, the friend of man assign'd, With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic wo:
When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene, His wild unsated foe!
By Pella's bard, a magic name,
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant side,
Deserted stream, and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy strains,
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
To him thy cell was shewn ;
Come, Pity, come; by Fancy's aid,
There Picture's toil shall well relate,
The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
Allow'd with thee to dwell:
There waste the mournful lamp of night, Till, Virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!
Faught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear,
Thy springs, and dying gales;
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit ;
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding-star arising shews
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
By thy religious gleams.
Or, if chill blustering 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 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,
And love thy favourite name!
ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
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, and Pleasure's, nurs'd the powers of song!
Thou, who, with hermit heart,
Disdain'st the wealth of art,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall;
But com'st 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 love-lorn wo,
In evening musings slow,
Sooth'd, sweetly sad, Electra's poet's ear: