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Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain Which Heav'n may hear, nor deem religion vain.

Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to Heav'n the measure and the
choice:

Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious pray'r;
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,
Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best.
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;
For love, which scarce collective man can
fill;

For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat :
These goods for man the laws of Heav'n
ordain,

These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ;

With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. Samuel Johnson.-Born 1709, Died 1784.

886.-ON THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVETT.

1782.

Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny

Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting Nature call'd for aid,
And hovering Death prepared the blow.
His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In Misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his grcan,
And lonely want retired to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th' Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no throbs of fiery pain,

No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And forced his soul the nearest way. Samuel Johnson.-Born 1709, Died 1784.

887.-ODE TO PITY..

O thou, the friend of man assign'd With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe:

When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his destined scene, His wild unsated foe!

By Pella's bard, a magic name,

By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant side,

Deserted stream, and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, 'midst my native plains,
Been soothed by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shown;
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art,
Thy turtles mix'd their own.

Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride design:

Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat
In all who view the shrine.

There Picture's toil shall well relate
How Chance, or hard involving Fate,
O'er mortal bliss prevail :

The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.

There let me oft, retired by day, In dreams of passion melt away,

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How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

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Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed 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 vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
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 wreathes her brows with sedge,

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-discovered spires;

And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

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!

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

890.-TO THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting,
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd 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-stain'd 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 unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd; Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired,

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive

soul:

And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of Peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But O how alter'd was its sprightlier tone,

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chasteeyed 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;

They would have thought who heard the strain

They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from

wings.

his dewy

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found,
Cæcilia's mingled world of sound-
O bid our vain endeavour cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!

Confirm the tales her sons relate!

William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

891.-DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen;

No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female Fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.
William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

892.-ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

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 the gentle spirit rest!

And oft, as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail;
Or, tears, which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering
near ?

With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom.;
Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
"Oh! vales and wild woods," shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!"
William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756.

66

893. THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest Worth neglected lies

While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn

Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise;

Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise : Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies, Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity.

In every village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame.

There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire,

A matron old, whom we School-mistress

name;

Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;

They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,

Awed by the power of this relentless dame; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which Learning near her little dome did

stowe ;

Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow;

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