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There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her to her blissful train

Blithe Concord's social form to gain;
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
Even Anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep;
Before whose breathing bosom's balm

Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm :
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd 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 blest,
Thou, lady-thou shalt rule the west!

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ODE

TO A LADY ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL ROSS,
IN THE ACTION OF 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

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10

His country's vows shall bless the grave,

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VARIATION.

Ver. 4 was originally written, says T. Warton, (Reaper, No.

26,) thus:

While sunk in grief he strives to tear

Where'er the youth is laid:

That sacred spot the village hind

With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,

Aerial hands shall build thy tomb,

With shadowy trophies crown'd;

Whilst Honour bath'd in tears shall rove
To sigh thy name through every grove,
And call his heroes round.

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

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VARIATIONS.

Ver. 19. In Dodsley's Museum, the fourth stanza is printed

thus:

Ev'n now regardful of his doom
Applauding Honour haunts his tomb,

With shadowy trophies crown'd:

Whilst Freedom's form beside her roves,

Majestic thro' the twilight groves,

And calls her heroes round.

Dodsley (in his Collection of Poems) and Langhorne give it as

follows:

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,

Aerial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;

And, fallen to save his injur'd land,

Imperial Honour's aweful hand

Shall point his lonely bed.

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 laurell'd field,

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 garments torn, her bosom bare,

Impatient Freedom lies!

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Her matted tresses madly spread,

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To every sod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

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, And, bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the sated sword.

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VARIATION.

Ver. 31. T. Warton (Reaper, No. 26,) says the original ma

nuscript had,

Old Edward's sons, untaught to yield,

If, weak to soothe 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,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,
Her gentlest promise keep;

Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale.
Shall learn the sad-repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.

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VARIATION.

Ver. 49. Originally written, according to T. Warton, (Reaper, No. 26,) thus:

If, drawn by all a lover's art,

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