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.

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?

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queen +

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.

* Æfchylus. + Jocasta,

O Fear! I know thee by my throbbing heart,

Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line,

Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scenes are thine!

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou who such weary lengths hast past,

1

Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph! at last?

Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,

Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?

Or in some hallow'd seat,

'Gainst which the big waves beat,

Hear drowning seamens' cries in tempests brought!

Dark Power! with shuddering, meek, submitted

thought,

Be mine to read the visions old,

Which thy awakening bards have told.

Hear drowning Seamen's (ries in Tomposts brought :

Published by Cadell & Davies, Strand, Sep1797

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!

And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee !