We fly for comfort to fome lonely scene,
Victims henceforth of dirt, and drink, and spleen,

But let no obftacles, that cross our views,
Pervert our talents from their deftin'd ufe:
For, as upon life's hill we upwards press,
Our views will be obftructed lefs and lefs.
Be all falfe delicacy far away,

Left it from nature lead us quite aftray;
And for th' imagin'd vice of human race,
Destroy our virtue, or our parts debase:
Since God with reason joins to make us own,
That 'tis not good for man to be alone.

ODE, to a LADY.

On the Death of Col. CHARLES Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written May 1745.

[By Mr. W. COLLINS.]

I.

WHILE, loft to all his former mirth,

BRITANNIA's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day;

While, ftain'd with blood, he ftrives to tear

Unfeemly from his fea-green hair

The wreaths of cheerful May;
X 4

II. The

II.

The thoughts which mufing 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.

III.

By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall bless the grave,
Where-e'er the youth is laid:

That facred spot the village hind
With ev'ry sweetest turf shall bind,

And peace protect the shade.

IV.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,

Aerial forms fhall fit at eve

And bend the penfive head!
And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,

Imperial Honour's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

V.

The warlike dead of ev'ry age,

Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their fainted reft:
And, half-reclining on his fpear,
Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear,

To hail the blooming guest.

V. Old

VI.

Old EDWARD's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from CRESSY's laurell'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight;

Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy fteel,
And wish th' avenging fight.

VII.

If, weak to footh fo foft an heart,

These pictur'd glories nought impart

To dry thy constant tear;

If yet in forrow's distant eye,

Expos'd and pale thou feeft him lie,

Wild war infulting near:

VIII.

Where-e'er from time thou court'ft relief,

The muse shall still with focial grief
Her gentlest promise keep:

Ev'n humble HARTING's cottage vale

Shall learn the fad-repeated tale,

And bid her fhepherds weep.

O DE,

ODE,

Written in the fame Year. [By the Same.]

WOW fleep the brave, who fink to rest,

Ho

By all their country's wishes bleft!
When Spring with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there fhall dress a sweeter fod,
Than FANCY's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unfeen their dirge is fung;
There HONOUR comes, a PILGRIM grey,

To bless the turf that wraps

their clay, And FREEDOM fhall awhile repair,

To dwell a weeping HERMIT there!

ODE

ODE to EVENING.

[By the Same.]

Fought of oaten ftop, or pastoral song,

IF

May hope, chafte Eve, to footh thy modeft ear,

Like thy own folemn fprings,

Thy fprings, and dying gales,

O NYMPH referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whofe cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat, With fhort fhrill fhrieks flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedlefs hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe fome foften'd strain,

Whofe numbers ftealing thro' thy darkning vale,
May not unfeemly with its ftillnefs fuit,

As mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding ftar arifing fhews
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who flept in flow'rs the day,