And gaze with fix'd delight; Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel, And wish th' avenging fight. But lo, where, sunk in deep despair, Her matted tresses madly spread, Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground Till notes of triumph bursting round Proclaim her reign restor❜d: Till William seek the sad retreat, If, weak to sooth so soft an heart, These pictur'd glories nought impart, To dry thy constant tear: If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye, Expos'd and pale thou see'st him lie, Wild War insulting near: Where'er from time thou court'st relief, E'en humble Harting's cottag'd vale IF ODE TO EVENING. aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, O pensive Eve, to sooth thine ear, Like thy own brawling springs, Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun With brede ethereal wove, Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 1 Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding-star arising shows And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain, That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires; The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy fav'rite name! |