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, Oh how supremely art thou blest? Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the West! ODE TO A LADY, ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL CHARLES ROSS, IN THE ACTION AT FONTEΝΟΥ. WRITTEN MAY, MDCCXLV. WHILE, lost to all his former mirth, 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, Your faithful hours attend: Still Fancy, to herself unkind, Awakes to grief the soften'd mind, And points the bleeding friend. By rapid Scheldt'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, Aërial forms shall sit at eve, And bend the pensive head! And, fallen to save his injur'd land, Imperial Honour'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 wondring chief by turns appear, To hail the blooming guest. Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell❜d field, |