CXXV.

WILLIAM COLLINS,

1721-1759.

H

ODE.

OW 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 grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

CXXVI.

ON FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

'O fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

T°

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd-lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,

Or midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore ;
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved till life can charm no more;

And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

CXXVII.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1728-1774.

WHEN

OLIVIA'S SONG.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is to die.

CXXVIII.

TO MARY.

WILLIAM COWPER,

1731-1800.

HE twentieth year is well nigh past,

THE

Since first our sky was overcast ;

Ah! would that this might be the last;

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow;

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,

Are still more lovely in my sight

Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;

Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,

My Mary!