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See, sportive zephyrs fan the crisped streams;
Through shadowy brakes light glance the sparkling
While, near the secret moss-grown cave, That stands beside the crystal wave, Sweet Echo, rising from her rocky bed, Mimics the feather'd chorus o'er her head.
Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say,
How, when "deprest by age, beset with wrongs:"
Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse?
Each scene, that Tyber's banks supply'd;
Recall'd the long-lost beams of grace,
ODE TO INDEPENDENCY.
HERE, on my native shore reclin'd,
And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside :
Draws the long lustre of her silver line,
Come to thy vot'ry's ardent prayer, In all thy graceful plainness drest: No knot confines thy waving hair, No zone, thy floating vest ; Unsullied honour decks thine open brow, And candour brightens in thy modest eye: Thy blush is warm content's ethereal glow; Thy smile is peace; thy step is liberty: Thou scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand, As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.
As now o'er this lone beach I stray,
Thou heard'st him, goddess, strike the tender string, And bad'st his soul with bolder passions move:
* Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston-upon-Hull in the year 1620.
Soon these responsive shores forgot to ring,
Pointed with satire's keenest steel,
In aweful poverty his honest Muse
He scorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone,
Behold, like him, immortal maid,
Here, at thy feet, the sparks I spread :
And fan them to that dazzling blaze of song,
"Fond youth! to Marvell's patriot fame,
* See The Rehearsal transprosed, and an account of the effect of that satire, in the Biographia Britannica, art. Marvell.
Led by the moral Muse, securely rove;
"'Tis he, my son, alone shall cheer Thy sick'ning soul; at that sad hour, When o'er a much-lov'd parent's bier, Thy duteous sorrows shower: At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline; When pining Care leads on her pallid train, And sees thee, like the weak, and widow'd vine, Winding thy blasted tendrils o'er the plain. At that sad hour shall D'Arcy lend his aid, And raise with friendship's arm thy drooping head.
"This fragrant wreath, the Muses' meed,
Receive, thou favour'd son, at my command,
To him, who calls thee his, yet makes thee mine."
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
THE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air, So oft have tript in her fantastic train,
With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair: For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom;
(This envy owns, since now her bloom is fled;) Fair as the forms, that, wove in fancy's loom,
Float in light vision round the poet's head. Whene'er with soft serenity she smil❜d,
Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise, How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
The liquid lustre darted from her eyes! Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace, That o'er her form its transient glory cast: Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place,
Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last. That bell again! it tells us what she is:
On what she was no more the strain prolong: Luxuriant fancy, pause: an hour like this
Demands the tribute of a serious song, Maria claims it from that sable bier,
Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head;
In still small whispers to reflection's ear,
She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead.