And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line;
Her lion port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-color'd wings.

'The verse adorn again

III. 3

Fierce War and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

A Voice, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

115

120

125

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

130

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,

135

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: With joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.

Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,

To triumph, and to die, are mine.'

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

ENG. POEMS-9

140

5

WILLIAM COLLINS

1721-1759

A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CYMBELINE

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen;

No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life could charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

20

15

ΙΟ

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 reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed 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 composed,

To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing thro' thy darkening vale,
May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, as his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves

Who slept in flowers the day,

5

ΙΟ

15

20

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.

26

35

Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile,
Or upland fallows grey

Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side,

Views wilds, 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;

So long, sure found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipp'd health,
Thy gentlest influence own,

And hymn thy fav'rite name!

30

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

1728-1774

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

SWEET Auburn loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid.
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down ;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,