Thy shrine in some religious wood, How may the poet now unfold, Ye forms divine, ye laureate band, That near her inmost altar stand! Now soothe her, to her blissful train Blithe Concord's social form to gain: Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep: Before whose breathing bosom's balm, Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm; Her let our sires and matrons hoar Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore, Our youths, enamour'd of the fair, Play with the tangles of her hair, Till, in one loud applauding sound, The nations shout to her around, "O, how supremely art thou blest, Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the West!" From the supporting myrtles round First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, With woful measures wan Despair- "Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, And from her wild sequester'd seat, THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, In notes by distance made more sweet, And dashing soft from rocks around, Through glades and glooms the mingled measurestole Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. 1 The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, As if he would the charming air repay, O Music, sphere-descended maid, DIRGE IN CYMBELINE, The red-breast oft at evening hours To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, Each lonely scene shall thee restore, AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND; CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY. INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME. long HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, There, every herd, by sad experience, knows SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb No wailing ghost shall dare appear No wither'd witch shall here be seen, How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain; strain. * How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers! † A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins. E'en yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear, Where to the Pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father, to his listening son; Strange lays, whose power had charm'd a Spenser's ear. At every pause, before thy mind possest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel, Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms; When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny swarms, And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's arms. How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross, With their own vision oft astonish'd droop; When, o'er the watery strath, or quaggy moss, They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop. Or, if in sports, or on the festive green, Their destin'd glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigor seen, And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey; Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, In the first year of the first George's reign, Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic Muse Let not dank Wills mislead you to the heath: In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied, His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed, And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed! Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed: On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape, To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise, Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse! For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Her travell'd limbs in broken slumbers steep, With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: They rav'd! divining through their second-sight, Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd! Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke! * By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which happened about the year 1715; at least, it is most highly probable, from this peculiar circumstance, that no ancient writer whatever has taken any notice of them, nor even any one modern, previous to the above period. † Second-sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders. Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: "Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils, pursue, At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew, While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore, Drown'd by the Kelpie's|| wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!" § A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Wisp, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in I The late Duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pre- the air over marshy and fenny places. tender at the battle of Culloden. The water-fiend. SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND. To that hoar pile* which still its ruin shows: Or thither, where beneath the show'ry west The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold. But, oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temperance at the needful time They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb, And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus blest in primal innocence they live, Suffic'd and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd in elder time th' historic page. There, Shakspeare's self, with ev'ry garland crown'd, Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen, In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors dress'd the magic scene. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast! The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and color bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse. In scenes like these, which, daring to depart From sober truth, are still to Nature true, And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art. How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd! When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword! * One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies; where it is reported that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there. † Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where near sixty of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings are in terred. An aquatic bird like a goose, on the eggs of which the inhabitants of St. Kilda, another of the Hebrides, chiefly subsist. How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung! Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! 509 Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear, And fills the impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ear! All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail ! Your lowly glenst o'erhung with spreading broom; Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led; Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! Meantime, ye powers, that on the plains which bore absent friend! And oft as Ease and Health retire But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide * Mr. Thomson was buried in Richmond church. And see, the fairy valleys fade, The genial meadst assign'd to bless Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay † Mr. Thomson resided in the neighborhood of Rich mond some time before his death. |