WILLIAM COLLINS. Born 1721. Died 1759. ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.1 N yonder grave a Druid lies, IN Where slowly winds the stealing wave; In yon deep bed of whispering reeds Then maids and youths shall linger here, To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest! 'The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond. And oft, as ease and health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire,1 And mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthy bed, Yet lives there one whose heedless eye But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide And see-the fairy valleys fade; Dun night has veiled the solemn view! The genial meads, assigned to bless Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 1 Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried. AN ODE. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746. HOW OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; WHE THE PASSIONS. HEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound; Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear, his hand, its skill to try, With woful measures wan Despair But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still, through all the song ; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung ;-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose : He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, down; And with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted love, now raving called on hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And, from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to faun and dryad known! The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green : Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best ; |