Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd. RULE BRITANNIA (1740) When Britain first at Heaven's command This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; And work their woe and thy renown. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; The Muses, still with Freedom found, 25 Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd William Collins 1721-1759. ODE TO EVENING (From Odes, 1746) If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales, O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun, Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, 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, To breath some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit, Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding star arising shows Who slept in flowers 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 lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile, Or up-land fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, That from the mountain's side, 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 sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves; So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, Shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipp'd health, Thy gentlest influence own, THE PASSIONS AN ODE FOR MUSIC (From the same) When music, heavenly maid, was young, Next anger rushed; his eyes on fire, Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! 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-stained 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 unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed burst. ing from his head. |