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These constitute a State,
And sovereign Law, that State's collected will,

O’er thrones and globes elate,
Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour sinks,

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall Freedom smile?
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?

Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,

'Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

Sir William Jones.

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CL

AN ODE.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

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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 mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung ;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

William Collins.

10 CLI

ODE TO THE CUCKOO.

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IO

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !
Thou messenger of spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year !
Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee !
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

Michael Bruce.

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CLII

ODE TO EVENING.

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If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Sun 5 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

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,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ;
Now teach me, Maid composed,

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To breathe some softened strain,
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, 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.

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Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ;
Or find some ruin ’midst its dreary dells,

30 Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.
Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side

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Views wilds, and swelling floods,
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 Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;

45 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 50

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!

William Collins.

CLIII

ODE.
On yonder verdant hillock laid,
Where oaks and elms, a friendly shade,

O'erlook the falling stream,
O master of the Latin lyre,
Awhile with thee will I retire

From summer's noontide beam.

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IO

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And, lo, within my lonely bower,
The industrious bee from many a flower

Collects her balmy dews :
• For me,' she sings, 'the gems are born,
For me their silken robe adorn,

Their fragrant breath diffuse.'
Sweet murmurer ! may no rude storm
This hospitable scene deform,

Nor check thy gladsome toils;
Still may the buds unsullied spring,
Still showers and sunshine court thy wing

To these ambrosial spoils.
Nor shall my Muse hereafter fail
Her fellow-labourer thee to hail ;

And lucky be the strains !
For long ago did nature frame
Your seasons and your arts the same,

Your pleasures and your pains.
Like thee, in lowly, sylvan scenes,
On river-banks and flowery greens

My Muse delighted plays;
Nor through the desert or the air,
Though swans or eagles triumph there,

With fond ambition strays.
Nor where the boding raven chaunts,
Nor near the owl's unhallowed haunts,

Will she her cares employ ;
But Aies from ruins and from tombs,
From superstition's horrid glooms,

To daylight and to joy.

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Nor will she tempt the barren waste ;
Nor deigns the lurking strength to taste

Of any noxious thing;

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