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WILLIAM COLLINS.

William Collins, a distinguished modern poet, jof disorder in his mind, perceptible to any but himwas born at Chichester, in 1720 or 1721, where his self. He was reading the New Testament. “I father exercised the trade of a hatter. He received have but one book," said he, “ but it is the best." his education at Winchester College, whence he en- He was finally consigned to the care of his sister, in tered as a commoner of Queen's College, Oxford. whose arms he finished his short and melancholy In 1741, he procured his election into Magdalen course, in the year 1756. college as a demy; and it was here that he wrote It is from his Odes, that Collins derives bis chief his poetical · Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer," poetical fame ; and in compensation for the neglect and his “Oriental Eclogues;” of both which with which they were treated at their first appear. pieces the success was but moderate. In 1744, he ance, they are now almost universally regarded as came to London as a literary adventurer, and va- the first productions of the kind in our language, rious were the projects which he formed in this with respect to vigor of conception, boldness and capacity. In 1746, however, he ventured to lay variety of personification, and genuine warmth of before the public a volume of " Odes, Descriptive feeling. They are well characterized in an essay and Allegorical ;” but so callous was the national prefixed to his works, in an ornamented edition pubtaste at this time, that their sale did not pay for the lished by Cadell and Davies, with which we shall printing. Collins, whose spirit was high, returned conclude this article. “He will be acknowledged to the bookseller his copy-money, burnt all the un- (says the author) to possess imagination, sweetness, sold copies, and as soon as it lay in his power, in- bold and figurative language. His numbers dwell demnified him for his small loss; yet among these on the ear, and easily fix themselves in the memory. odes, were many pieces which now rank among the His vein of sentiment is by turns tender and lofty, finest lyric compositions in the language. After always tinged with a degree of melancholy, but not this mortification, he obtained from the booksellers possessing any claim to originality. His originality a small sum for an intended translation of Aristotle's consists in his manner, in the highly figurative garb Poetics, and paid a visit to an uncle, Lieutenant- in which he clothes abstract ideas, in the felicity of Colonel Martin, then with the army in Germany. his expressions, and his skill in embodying ideal The Colonel dying soon after, left Collins a legacy creations. He had much of the mysticism of poetry, of 20001., a sum which raised him to temporary and sometimes became obscure by aiming at imopulence; but he now soon became incapable of pressions stronger than he had clear and well-defin'd every mental exertion. Dreadful depression of ideas to support. Had his life been prolonged, and spirits was an occasional attendant on his malady, with life had he enjoyed that ease which is necessary for which he had no remedy but the bottle. It was for the undisturbed exercise of the faculties, he about this time, that it was thought proper to con- would probably have risen far abore most of his fine him in a receptacle of lunatics. Dr. Johnson contemporaries." paid him a visit at Islington, when there was nothing

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Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride design;
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat

In all who view the shrine.

But who is he, whom later garlands grace,

Who left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove?

There Picture's toil shall well relate,
How Chance, or hard involving Fate,

O'er mortal bliss prevail :
The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And, sighing, prompt her tender hand

With each disastrous tale.

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th’incestuous queen,t

Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd O Fear! I know thee by my throbbing heart,

Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line; Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.

ANTISTROPHE.

There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell:
There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight

To hear a British shell!

ODE TO FEAR.

Thou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who see'st appallid th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lists the veil between :

Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!

I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye! Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly. For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fixt behold ? Who stalks his round, a hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep: And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds accurs’d the mind : And those, the fiends, who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds and wrecks preside; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare ; On whom that ravening brood of Fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait; Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee?

Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last ? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ? Or in some hollow'd seat, 'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought: Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted

thought,
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told.

And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true ;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou, whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast !
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel :
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

ODE.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

EPODE.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod, Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice

The grief-full Muse address'd her infant tongue; 'The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the bard * who first invok'd thy name,

Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
Their Honor comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

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ODE, TO A LADY,

ON THE DEATH OF COL. CHARLES ROSS, IN THE

ACTION AT FONTENOY.

Written May, 1745. While, lost to all his former mirih, Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day : While stain'd with blood he strives to tear Unseemly from his sea-green hair

The wreaths of cheerful May:

The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,

Your faithful hours attend :
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,

And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,

Where'er the youth is laid:
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,

And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve, Aerial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head; And, fall'n to save his injur'd land, Imperial Honor's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their sainted rest :
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear

To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,

And gaze with fix'd delight: Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And wish th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where, sunk in deep despair, Her garments torn, her bosom bare,

Impatient Freedom lies ! Her matted tresses madly spread, To every sod which wraps the dead,

She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground, Till notes of triumph bursting round

Proclaim her reign restor'd : Till William seek the sad retreat, And, bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the sated sword.

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep :
E'en humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.

ODE TO EVENING.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral 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 through thy darkening 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

The fragrant hours, and elves

Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut

That from the mountain's side
Views wild and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes :

If, weak to soothe so soft an heart, These pictur'd glories nought impart,

To dry thy constant tear : If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye, Expos'd and pale thou see'st bim lie,

Wild war insulting near :

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!

Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those to whom the stork* is dear :
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whose crown a British queen refus'd!
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holior name alone remains ;
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

ODE TO LIBEPTY.

STROPHY

ANTISTROPHE.

Who shall awake the Ssirtan fise,
And call in solemn so'nds to life,

Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,

The works, the wizard Time has wrought! Like vernal hyacirths in sullen hue,

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story, At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand,

Applauding F endom lov'd of old to view ? No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary, What new Alens, fancy-blest,

He pass'd with unwet feet through all our land. Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,

To the blown Baltic then, they say, At Wisdon's shrine awhile its flame concealing,

The wild waves found another way, (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd ?)

Where Orcas bowls, his wolfish mountains rounding; Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,

Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, It 'eap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted A wide wild storm e'en Nature's self confounding, wound!

Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth O goddess, in that feeling hour,

surprise. When most its sounds would court thy ears, This pillar'd earth so firm and wide, Let not my shell's misguided power

By winds and inward labors torn, E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.

In thunders dread was push'd aside, No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,

And down the shouldering billows borne How Rome, before thy face,

And see, like gems, her laughing train, With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,

The little isles on every side, Push'd by a wild and artless race,

Mona,f once hid from those who search the main, From off its wide ambitious base,

Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, And Wight, who checks the westering tide,

And all the blended work of strength and grace For thee consenting Heaven has cach bestow'd,
With many a rude repeated stroke,

A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments To thee this blest divorce she ow'd, broke.

For thou hast made her vales thy lor'd, thy last abode!

SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,

EPODE.
Yet, e'en where'er the least appear'd,
Th'admiring world thy hand rever'd ;
Still, midst the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found ;
They saw, by what escap'd the storm,
How wondrous rose her perfect form;
How in the great, the labor'd whole,
Each mighty master pour'd his soul;
For sunny Florence, seat of Art,
Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,
Till they, whorn Science lov'd to name,
(0, who could fear it!) quench'd her flame.
And, lo, an humbler relic laid
In jealous Pisa's olive shade!
See small Marino joins the theme,
Though least, not last in thy esteem;
Strike, louder strike th' ennobling strings
To those, whose merchants' sons were kings;
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride :
Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure :
Nor e'er her former pride relate
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek,
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favor’d of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled.)

* The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe pen. alties for those who arc convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and par. ticularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to en. tertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their liberties.

| This tradition is mentioned by several of our old his. torians. Some naturalists, too, have endeavored to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I do not remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it.

1 There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mer. maid, becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordi. nary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprise at her appearance. This, how. ever, was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that, in re. venge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who at. tempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never

arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.

Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing goddess, stood !
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self, o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
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 ?
E'en now, before his favor'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design ;
The secret builder knew to choose,
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 through every age.

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
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

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,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan Despair

Low sullen sounds his grief beguild, A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She callid on Echo still through all the song ;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden

hair. And longer had she sung—but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting

from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,

Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving callid on

Hate. With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspird, Pale Melancholy sat retird, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measurestole Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

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 fung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung.

THE PASSIONS.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting ;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb’d, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fillid with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

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