And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence Where INDOLENCE (for so the wizard hight11) kest,+ Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CYMBELINE* To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds1 shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. 2 No wailing ghost shall dare appear, To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. 3 No withered witch shall here be seen, The redbreast oft at evening hours 5 When howling winds, and beating rain, 1 rustics, peasants Or midst the chase on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 6 Each lonely scene shall thee restore, ODE † 1 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 hallowed mold, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 2 By fairy hands their knell is rung, ODE TO EVENING ‡ 1 If ought of oaten stop,2 or pastoral song, 2 sister Imogen, who is disguised as Fidele and O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired whom they suppose to be dead: "Written," says Collins. "in the beginning of the year 1746." The British troops had lately suffered losses in the War of the Austrian Succession, e. g., at Fontenoy in 1745, and Falkirk, January, 1746. "Although less popular than The Deserted Village and Gray's Elegy, the Ode to Evening is yet like them in embodying in exquisite form sights, sounds, and feelings of such permanent beauty that age cannot wither them nor custom stale.". -W. C. Bronson. See also Eng. Lit., 219-220, Y No children run to lisp their sire's return, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.* 16 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has Th' applause of listening senates to command, broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 8 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 9 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 10 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 17 Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 18 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 19 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 11 Can storied urn2 or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provokes the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 12 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 13 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page And froze the genial+ current of the soul. 14 Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 15 Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 20 Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 21 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered The place of fame and elegy supply: 22 For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 23 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some village Hampden, that with dauntless I. e.. write flattering |