The bloom of youth, the majesty of years, The soften'd aspect, innocent and kind, The sigh of sorrow, and the streaming tears, Resistless all, their various pow'r combin'd. In her fair hand a silver harp she bore, Whose magic notes, soft-warbling from the Give tranquil joy the breast ne'er knew before, Haste, ye sister powers of song, Where the river rolls along, Sweetly to the voice of love. Where, indulging mirthful pleasures, Cull the wreaths for Fancy's queen. Where your gently-flowing numbers, For graver strains prepare the plaintive lyre, Rack'd by the hand of rude Disease While every object form'd to please The blissful Muse, whose favouring smile In Transport's radiant garments drest, With darksome grandeur and enfeebl'd blaze, Sinks in the shades of night, and shuns his eager gaze. The gaudy train, who wait on Spring [69], Ting'd with the pomp of vernal pride, The youths who mount on Pleasure's wing [70], And idly sport on Thames's side, With cool regard their various arts employ, of joy. Ha! what forms, with port sublime [71], Glide along in sullen mood, High above Misfortune's flood? They seize their harps, they strike the lyre, Obedient Nature hears the lofty sound, And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains resound. [69] Ode on Spring. [70] Ode on the Prospect of Eton College. In pomp of state, behold they wait, With arms outstretch'd, and aspects kind, To snatch on high to yonder sky, The child of Fancy left behind: Forgot the woes of Cambria's fatal day, By rapture's blaze impell'd, they swell the artless lay. But ah! in vain they strive to sooth, Behold she comes, the fiend forlorn, With frantic fury and insatiate rage, She gnaws the throbbing breast and blasts the glowing page. [72] Hymn to Adversity. No more the soft Æolian flute [73] And leave the once-delightful plain; With heavy wing, I see them beat the air, Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless Despair. Yet stay, O! stay, celestial pow'rs, O watch with me his last expiring breath, And snatch him from the arms of dark, oblivious death. Hark the Fatal Sisters [74] join, And with Horror's mutt'ring sounds, Weave the tissue of his line, While the dreadful spell resounds. [73] The Progress of Poesy. [74] The Fatal Sisters, an Ode. |