Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains The beauteous model still remains: There happier than in islands bless'd, Or bow'rs by Spring or Hebe dress'd, The chiefs who fill our Albion's story In warlike weeds retir'd in glory, Hear their consorted Druids sing Their triumphs to th' immortal string. How may the poet now unfold, What never tongue or numbers told, How learn, delighted and amaz'd, What hands unknown that fabric rais'd? Ev'n now before his favour'd eyes In Gothic pride it seems to rise! Yet Grecia's graceful orders join Majestic thro' the mix'd design: The secret builder knew to chuse Each sphere-found gem of richest hues; Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains When nearer suns emblaze its veins : There on the walls the patriot's sight May ever hang with fresh delight, And, grav'd with some prophetic rage, Read Albion's fame thro' ev'ry age. Ye Forms Divine! ye Laureate Band! That near her inmost altar stand, Now sooth her, to her blissful train ODE IX. TO EVENING. IF aught of oaten stop or past'ral song May hope, chaste Eve! to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs and dying gales; O Nymph reserv'd! while now the bright-hair'd Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed; Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; Now teach me, maid compos'd! To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers stealing thro' 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 shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph, who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car: Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, F Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams: Or if chill blust❜ring 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 show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy ling'ring light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! ODE X. TO PEACE. O THOU! who bad'st thy turtles bear Swift from his grasp thy golden hair, And sought'st thy native skies; When War, by vultures drawn from far, To Britain bent his iron car, And bid his storms arise: Tir'd of rude tyrannic sway, Our youth shall fix some festive day But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres, O Peace! thy injur'd robes up-bind; O rise, and leave not one behind Of all thy beamy train! The British Lion, Goddess sweet! Let others court thy transient smile, |