A The Progress of Poesy. A PINDARIC ODE. I. I. WAKE, Æolian lyre, awake, to And give to rapture all thy trembling strings! From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take. Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign: Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. I. 2. O Sovereign of the willing soul! Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. Has curbed the fury of his car, And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king The terror of his beak, and lightning of his eye. I. 3. Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Tempered to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day, With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet : Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love. II. I. Man's feeble race what ills await! Labor and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. II. 2. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers, wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame. II. 3. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Or where Mæander's amber waves How do your tuneful echoes languish, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. III. I. Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy ; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears." III. 2. Nor second He, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy, The secrets of the Abyss to spy. He passed the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living Throne, the sapphire blaze, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two Coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. III. 3. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! tis heard no more— O Lyre divine! what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun : Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far !-but far above the Great. THOMAS GRAY. "R The Bard. I. I. UIN seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. I. 2. On a rock whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Streamed like a meteor, to the troubled air), 'Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. I. 3. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. |