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,
Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,

With shadowy trophies crown'd;
Whilst Honour bathed 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,

Shall leave their sainted rest;
And, half reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest:

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 19. E'en now regardful of his doom
Applauding Honour haunts his tomb,
With shadowy trophies crown'd:
Whilst Freedom's form beside her roves,
Majestic through the twilight groves,

And calls her heroes round.

19. O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aërial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;

And, fallen to save his injured land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed.

15

20

25

30

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,

And gaze with fix'd delight;
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.

But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted tresses madly spread,
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 restored :

Till William seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.

If, weak to soothe so soft a heart,
These pictured glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear:

If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Exposed and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild War insulting near:

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 31. Old Edward's sons, untaught to yield, 49. If, drawn by all a lover's art,

35

40

45

50

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep;
Even humbled Harting's cottaged vale*
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.

55

60

Harting, a village adjoining the parish of Trotton, and

about two miles distant from it.

ODE TO EVENING.

Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

4

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat 9
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 2. May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear. 3. Like thy own solemn springs,

9. While air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat

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,

15

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,

20

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge,

25

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,

$0

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 24. Who slept in flowers the day,

29. Then lead, calm votress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,

E