Ode

Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746

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 hallow'd Mold,

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 a-while repair,

To dwell a weeping Hermit there!

William Collins

Ode to Evening

IF ought 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 reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun

Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts,

With Brede ethereal wove,

O'erhanh his wavy Bed:

Now Air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd 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 born in heedless Hum:

Now teach me, Maid compos'd,

To breathe some soften'd Strain,

Whose Numbers stealing thro' thy darkning Vale,

May not unseemly with its Stillness suit,

As musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd Return!

For when thy folding Star arising shews

His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in flow'rs the day,

And many a Nymph who wreaths her Brows with Sedge,

And sheds the fresh'ning Dew, and lovelier still,

The Pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy Car.

Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake

Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,

Or up-land fallows grey

Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill blustring Winds, or driving Rain,

Forbid my willing Feet, be mine the Hut,

That from the Mountain's Side,

Views Wilds, and swelling Floods,

And Hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd Spires,

And hears their simple Bell, and marks o'er all

Thy Dewy Fingers draw

The gradual dusky Veil.

While Spring shall pour his Show'rs, as oft he wont,

And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport,

Beneath thy ling'ring Light:

While sallow Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves,

Or Winter yelling thro' the troublous Air,

Affrights thy shrinking Train,

And rudely rends thy Robes,

So long, sure-found beneath the Sylvan shed,

Shall FANCY, FRIENDSHIP, SCIENCE, rose-lip'd HEALTH,

Thy gentlest Influence own,

And Hymn thy fav'rite Name!

William Collins