HAIL, meek-ey'd maiden, clad in sober grey,
Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves;
As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes,
Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.
When Phoebus sinks behind the gilded hills,
You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk;
The drooping daisies bathe in honey dews,
And nurse the nodding violet's slender stalk.
The panting dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmost bowers, and cooling caverns ran;
Return to trip in wanton evening-dance;
Old Silvan too returns, and laughing Pan.
To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light skims the swallow o'er the watery scene;
And from the sheep-cote, and fresh-furrow'd field,
Stout ploughmen meet, to wrestle on the Green.
The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock,
His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies;
Pleas'd with the cool, the calm, refreshful hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.
Now every passion sleeps: desponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride;
A holy calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul,
Anger, and mad Ambition's storms subside.
O modest Evening! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy pensive train;
Listening to every wildly-warbling throat
That fills with farewell sweet thy darkening plain.
O GODDESS, on whose steps attend
Pleasure and laughter-loving Health,
White-mantled Peace, with olive-wand,
Young Joy, and diamond-sceptred Wealth;
Blithe Plenty, with her loaded horn,
With Science, bright-ey'd as the morn,
In Britain, which for ages past
Has been thy choicest darling care;
Who mad'st her wise, and strong, and fair,
May thy best blessings ever last!
For thee the pining prisoner mourns,
Depriv'd of food, of mirth, of light;
For thee, pale slaves to galleys chain'd,
That ply tough ears from morn to night;
Thee, the proud sultan's beauteous train,
By eunuchs guarded, weep in vain,
Tearing the roses from their locks;
And Guinea's captive kings lament,
By christian lords to labour sent,
Whip'd like the dull, unfeeling ox.
Inspir'd by thee, deaf to fond nature's cries,
Stern Brutus, when Rome's genius loudly call'd,
Gave her the matchless filial sacrifice,
Unable to behold her power enthrall'd!
And he of later age, but equal fame,
Dar'd stab the tyrant though he lov'd the friend;
How burnt the Spartan' with warm patriot flame,
In thy great cause his valorous life to end!
How burst Gustavus from the Swedish mine!
Like light from chaos dark, eternally to shine.
When Heaven to all thy joys bestows,
And graves upon our hearts-be free!—
Shall coward man those joys resign,
And dare reverse this great decree?
Submit him to some idol-king,
Some selfish, passion-guided thing,
Abhorring man, by man abhorr'd,
Around whose throne stands trembling Doubt,
Whose jealous eyes still roll about;
And Murder, with his reeking sword?
Where trampling Tyranny with Fate;
And black Revenge gigantic goes;
Hark, how the dying infants shriek,
How hopeless age is sunk in woes!
Fly, mortals, from that faded land,
Though rivers roll o'er golden sand,
Though birds in shades of cassia sing,
Harvests and fruits spontaneous rise,
No storms disturb the smiling skies,
And each soft breeze rich odours bring.
Britannia watch!-remember peerless Rome,
Her high-tower'd head dash'd meanly to the ground;
Remember, freedom's guardian, Grecia's doom,
Whom, weeping, the despotic Turk has bound;
May ne'er thy oak-crown'd hills, rich meads and
down,
(Fame, virtue, courage, property, forgot)
Thy peaceful villages, and busy towns,
Be doom'd some death-dispensing tyrant's lot;
On deep foundations may thy freedom stand,
Long as the surge shall lash thy sea-encircled land.
WRITTEN ON A RECOVERY FROM THE SMALL-POX.
O WHETHER with laborious clowns,
In meads and woods thou lov'st to dwell;
In noisy, merchant-crowded towns,
Or in the temperate Brachman's cell;
Who from the meads of Ganges' fruitful flood,
Wet with sweet dews, collects his flowery food.
In Bath or in Montpellier's plains,
Or rich Bermuda's balmy isle,
Or the cold North, whose fur-clad swains
Ne'er saw the purple Autumn smile,
Who over alps of snow, and deserts drear,
By twinkling star-light drive the flying deer.
O lovely queen of mirth and ease,
Whom absent, beauty, banquets, wine,
Wit, music, pomp, nor science please,
And kings on ivory couches pine;
Nature's kind nurse, to whom by gracious Heav'n,
To soothe the pangs of toilsome life 'tis giv'n.
To aid a languid wretch repair,
Let pale-ey'd Grief thy presence fly,
The restless demon, gloomy Care,
And meagre Melancholy die;
Drive to some lonely rock the giant Pain,
And bind him howling with a triple chain!
O come, restore my aching sight,
Yet let me not on Laura gaze;
Soon must quit that dear delight,
O'erpower'd by Beauty's piercing rays;
Support my feeble feet, and largely shed
Thy oil of gladness on my fainting head.
How nearly had my spirit pass'd,
Till stop'd by Metcalf's skilful hand,
To Death's dark regions, wide and waste,
And the black river's mournful strand;
Or to those vales of joy and meadows bless'd,
Where sages, heroes, patriots, poets rest:
Where Maro and Musæus sit
Listening to Milton's loftier song,
With sacred silent wonder smit;
While, monarch of the tuneful throng,
Homer in rapture throws his trumpet down,
And to the Briton gives his amaranthine crown.
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