ODE XLIII. TO SLEEP. BY MR. H. FRIEND to the gloomy shade of night! The wretch whom snow-girt Zembla chills, The joyous choristers that flit in air, The mutes that dwell beneath the silver flood, The savage howling o'er th' affrighted wood, And man, th' imperious lord of all, thy power declare. Thy magic wand can oft restrain The miser's sordid hopes of gain; And lull Suspicion's wakeful eyes in peace. If thou but soothe the faithful lover's rest, No fond remembrance of each parting sigh, Of Beauty's smile, or Pity's streaming eye, In grief's soft moments steal around his aching breast. Fair Virtue's friend! thou ne'er shalt shed To ermin'd Innocence are known, And gay Content, with rural garlands crown'd. By thee the shadow-trembling murderer's guilt With doubled terror wrings the tortur'd soul, The purpled steel, the life-destructive bowl, Recall the baleful horrors of the blood he spilt. When by some pale and livid light Thy visions seize my ravish'd breast, Methinks I hear the Theban lyre; The festive choirs their hopes proclaim, While Pan exults with uncouth signs of joy. For thee, sole glory of thy abject race, The thyme-fed bees their luscious sweets diffuse, To soothe the numbers of thy copious muse, And in Boeotia fix each coy reluctant grace. Oft, fir'd with Bacchanalian rage, To sorrowing sounds he lulls each plaintive wave, His willows fading, and his sea-green mantle torn. With longing taste, with eager lip, In raptur'd visions oft I sip The honey of the tragic bee: Whose strains could every tempest quell, Could every noxious blast dispel, And still the hollow roaring of the sea. Whose powerful fancy, whose exhaustless vein, Whose daring genius, whose triumphant wing, Deep source from whence ten thousand rivers spring, Just bounds could limit, and each rigid rule restrain. How oft, inspir'd with magic dread, With piercing eye, with pensive mind, In attic solitude reclin'd, Stern Virtue's precepts chill the poet's rage. Could wake each tender feeling of the soul, With patriot ardor I behold The mirthful Muse for freedom bold; At length upon the poet's breast The sportive Graces fix'd their gay retreat. The wanton Teian loves each chaster thought disarm. Thus may thy languid charms dispense |