SECOND EPODE.
Then too, 'tis faid, an hoary pile,
'Midft the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-enforcing Goddefs, ftood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet :
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treffed Dane,
Or Roman's felf o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'T were hard for modern fong to tell.
Yet ftill, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in iflands bleft,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe dreft,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's ftory,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their conforted Druids fing
Their triumphs to th' immortal ftring.
How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majeftic, through the mix'd defign;
The fecret builder knew to chufe,
Each sphere found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains,
When nearer funs emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the Patriot's fight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with fome prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmoft altar ftand!
Now foothe her, to her blifsful train
Blithe Concord's focial form to gain :
Concord, whofe myrtle wand can steep
Ev'n Anger's blood-fhot eyes in fleep:
Before whose breathing bofom's balm,
Rage drops his fteel, and forms grow calm;
Her let our fires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd fhore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding found,
The nations fhout to her around,
O, how fupremely art thou bleft,
Thou, Lady, thou fhalt rule the west!
To a Lady, on the Death of Colonel CHARLES Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written May, 1745
WHILE, loft to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day :
While ftain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unfeemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of chearful 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 foften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall blefs the grave,
Wheree'er the youth is laid:
That facred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf fhall bind,
And Peace protect the fhade.
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aërial forms fhall fit at eve,
And bend the penfive head;
And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's aweful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their fainted reft:
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Creffy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy steel,
And with th' avenging fight.
But, lo! where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bofom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted treffes madly spread,
To every fod which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er fhall fhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor❜d:
Till William feek the fad retreat,
And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated sword.
If, weak to foothe fo foft an heart,
Thefe pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear:
If yet, in Sorrow's diftant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou fee'ft him lie,
Wild war infulting near:
Wheree'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with focial grief,
Her gentlest promise keep :
Ev'n humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the fad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.
IF aught of oaten ftop, or paftoral fung,
May hope, chafte Eve, to foothe thy modeft ear,
Like thy own folemn fprings,
Thy springs, and dying gales;
O nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whofe cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat,
With fhort fhrill fhriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds..
His fmall but fullen horn,
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