Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravaged shore;
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,
'O how supremely art thou bless'd,
Thou, lady-thou shalt rule the west!'
ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL ROSS, IN THE ACTION AT FONTENOY.
WRITTEN IN MAY, 1745.
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,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld'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,
Bless'd youth, regardful of thy doom,
Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,
With shadowy trophies crown'd:
Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall rove
To sigh thy name through every grove,
And call his heroes round1.
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest;
And, half reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight;
Ágain for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the' avenging fight.
But lo, where sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread,
Το every sod which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.
1 In Langhorne's edition of Collins, this stanza was thus
O'er him whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aëriel forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head;
And, fall'n to save his injured land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restored:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.
If, weak to sooth so soft an heart,
These pictured glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear;
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Exposed and pale thou seest him lie,
Wild War insulting near;
Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still with social grief,
Her gentlest promise keep:
E'en humble Harting's cottaged vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.
IF 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 reserved, while now the bright-hair'd Sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede etherial wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed;-
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs, &c.
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd 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 soften'd strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening
May not unseemly with its stillness suit; [vale,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,
And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin, midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent 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
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 regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!
O THOU, who badest thy turtles bear
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,
And sought'st thy native skies;
When War, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bade his storms arise!
Tired of his rude tyrannic sway,
Our youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn:
But thou who hear'st the turning spheres,
What sounds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bless'd return!
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