Charles Ayer

P

PRIZE ODE

BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.

PRIZE ODE.

GOD of the glorious Lyre!
Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang,
While Jove's exulting quire

Caught the glad echoes and responsive sang-
Come! bless the service and the shrine,
We consecrate to thee and thine.

Fierce from the frozen north,
When havock led his legions forth,

O'er Learning's sunny groves the dark destroyers spread:
In dust the sacred statue slept,

Fair Science round her altars wept,

And Wisdom cowled his head.

At length, Olympian Lord of morn,
The raven veil of night was torn,

When, through golden clouds descending,
Thou didst hold thy radiant flight
O'er nature's lovely pageant bending,
Till Avon rolled, all-sparkling, to thy sight!

There, on its bank, beneath the Mulberry's shade, Wrapped in young dreams, a wild-eyed Minstrel strayed. Lighting there and lingering long,

Thou didst teach the Bard his song;

Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, And round his brows a garland curled; On his lips thy spirit fell,

And bade him wake and warm the world!

Then Shakspeare rose !
Across the trembling strings
His daring hand he flings,

And lo! a new creation glows!

There, clustering round, submissive to his will,
Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil.

Madness, with his frightful scream,
Vengeance, leaning on his lance,
Avarice, with his blade and beam,

Hatred, blasting with a glance,

Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars,

And Jealousy, that dotes but dooms, and murders yet adores.

Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit,
Waking Laughter's merry swell,
Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit,

That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell.

From the feudal tower pale Terror rushing,

Where the prophet bird's wail

Dies along the dull gale,

And the sleeping monarch's blood is gushing!

Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream,
Kissed by the virgin moon's cold beam,
Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes,
And, swan-like, there her own dirge breathes,

Then, broken-hearted, sinks to rest,

Beneath the bubbling wave, that shrouds her maniac breast.

Young Love, with eye of tender gloom,
Now drooping o'er the hallowed tomb,
Where his plighted victims lie,

Where they met, but met to die :—
And now, when crimson buds are sleeping,
Through the dewy arbour peeping,

Where beauty's child, the frowning world forgot,
To youth's devoted tale is listening,

Rapture on her dark lash glistening,

While fairies leave their cowslip cells and guard the happy spot.

Thus rise the phantom throng,
Obedient to their Master's song,

And lead in willing chain the wondering soul along.
For other worlds war's Great One sighed in vain,-
O'er other worlds see Shakspeare rove and reign!