lone could beauty take so right: Her drefs, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observ'd, as well as heav'nly face. With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands; Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen. Thus nothing to her genius was denied, But like a ball of fire the further thrown, Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side. What next she had design'd, Heav'n only knows: To such immoderate growth her conquest rose, That fate alone its progress could oppose.
VIII.
Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much lamented virgin lies. Nor wit nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel Destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life and beauty too; But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the reliqu, and deface the shrine! But thus Orianda died: Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
IX.
Meantime her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. Ah generous youth! that with forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace. But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far, Among the Pleiads a new kindled star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
X.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When in the valley of Jeholophat, The judging God shall close the book of fate; And there the last affords keep For those who wake and those who sleep: When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go— As harbinger of heav'n, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below.
That this is a fine ode, and not unworthy of the genius of Dryden, must be acknowledged; but that it is the noblest which the English language has produced, or that any part of it runs with the torrent of enthusiasm which characterizes Alexander's Feat, are positions which we feel not ourselves inclined to admit. Had the critic by whom it is so highly praised, inspected it with the eye which scanned the odes of Gray, we cannot help thinking that he would have perceived some parts of it to be tediously minute in description, and others not very perspicuous at the first perusal. It may perhaps, upon the whole, rank as high as the following ode by Collins on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland; but to a higher place it has surely no claim.
I.
Home, thou return'it from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, Mid those soft friends, whose heart some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song, Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth (G) Whom, long endear'd, thou leave'it by Lavant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destined bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'it, where ev'ry vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; Thou need'it but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.
II.
There must thou wake perchance thy Doric quill; 'Tis fancy's land to which thou felt'it thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the Fairy people meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There, each trim laf, that skims the milky flore, To the fwart tribes their creamy bowl allots; By night they sip it round the cottage-door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There, ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows, How, wing'd with Fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain: Nor thou, tho' learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect: Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain; These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.
Ev'n yet preserv'd, how often may'it thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father to his lift'ning son, Strange lays, whose pow'r had charm'd a Spenser's ear. At ev'ry pause, before thy mind posset, Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncut lyres in many-colour'd veilt, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bid'it the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strew'd with choiceest herbs his feasted grave; Or whether fitting in the shepherd's thief (H), Thou hear'it some found tale of war's alarms, When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brauny swarms, And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.
IV.
'Tis thine to sing how framing hideous spells, In Sky's lone ille the gifted wizzard seer §, Lodg'd in the wintry cave with Fate's fell spear (1), Or in the depth of Ulf's dark forest dwells: How they whose fight such dreary dreams engross, With their own visions oft astonish'd droop, When, o'er the wat'ry strath, or quaggy moss, They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop. Or, if in sports, or on the festive green, Their deftn'd glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lofty vigour feen, And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey; Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.
V.
To monarchs dear (K), some hundred miles afar, Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! The fear in Sky shriek'd as the blood did flow When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!
(g) A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins. (h) A summer hut, built in the high part of the mountains, to tend their flocks in the warm season, when the pasture is fine. (i) Waiting in wintry cave his wayward fits. (k) Of this beautiful ode two copies have been printed: one by Dr Carlyle, from a manuscript which he acknowledges to be mutilated; another by an editor who seems to hope that a nameless somebody will be believed, when he declares, that "he discovered a perfect copy of this admirable ode among some old papers in the concealed drawers of a bureau left him by a relation." The present age has been already too much amused with pretended discoveries of poems in the bottoms of old chests, to pay full credit to an assertion of this kind, even though the scene of discovery be laid in a bureau. As the ode of the anonymous editor differs, however, very little from that of Dr Carlyle, and as what is affirmed by a Gentleman may be true, though "he chooses not at present..." As Boreas threw his young Aurora (1) forth, In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles rag'd in welkin of the North, They mourn'd in air, fell, fell rebellion, slain! And as of late they joy'd in Prefont's fight, Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd divining through their second-fight (2), Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd! Illustrious William (3)! Britain's guardian name! One William fav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame, But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!
VI.
These, too, thou'lt fing! for well thy magic muse Can to the topmost heav'n of grandeur soar! Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er loo'de; Let not dank Will (4) mislead you to the heath: Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, He glows, to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied, His glimm'ring mazes cheer th'excursive flight, Yet turn, ye wand'lers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unruffling reed, At thole mire hours the wily monster lies, And litters oft to hear the passing steed, And frequent round him rolls his full eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprize.
VII.
Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed! Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where hums the jedy weed.
On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wil'd escape, To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye, the grim and grilly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime the wat'ry surge shall round him rise, Pour'd sudden forth from ev'ry swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeles sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthful force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corpse!
VIII.
For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Or wander forth to meet him on his way; For him in vain, at to-fall of the day, His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate! Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night, Her travell'd limbs in broken slumber steep! With drooping willows dreft, his mournful sprite Shall visit lad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moit and wat'ry hand, Shall fondly seem to press her fludd'ring cheek, And with his blue-tworn face before her stand, And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: "Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue, "At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; "Nor e'er of me one *helpless thought renew, "While I lie weel'tring on the ozier'd shore, "Drown'd by the kelpie's* wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee!"
IX.
Unbounded is thy range; with varied *kill* (more!) fiend. Thy muse may, like thole feath'ry tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moit marge of each cold Hebridean isle,
---
(1) By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which is commonly said to have happened about the year 1715. (2) Second-fight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders. (3) The late duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender at the battle of Culloden. (4) A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Whip, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places. To that hoar pile (p) which fills its ruin flows: In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the deliver with his spade upthrows, And calls them, wond'ring, from the hollow'd ground! Or thither (q), where beneath the show'ry weft, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour, The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with lov'reign pow'r In pageant robes; and, wreath'd with fleecy gold, And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.
X.
But, oh! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wafting tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temperance at the needful time, They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-pref, Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb, And of its eggs defoil the folan's nest.
Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live, And Suffic'd, and happy with that frugal fare. Which taileful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow foil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!
XI.
Nor need't thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd in elder time th' historic page. There, Shakespear's self, with every garland crown'd, Flew to those fiery climes his fancy been (r), In musing hour; his wayward fitters found, And with their terrors dress'd the magic scene. From them he sung, when 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and aguish! The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line, Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd. Proceed! nor quit the tales, which, simply told, Could once so well my aniv'ring bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy pow'rful verse.
XII.
In scenes like these, which, daring to depart From sober truth, are fill'd to nature true, And call forth fresh delight to fancy's view, Th' heroic muse employ'd her Tasso's art!
How have I trembl'd, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gulping blood the gaping cypres pour'd, When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword! How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by Brittili Fairfax strung! Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind, Believed the magic wonders which he sung! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life flarts here! (s) Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring *, strong, and clear, * numer- And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious voice.
XIII.
All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail! Ye splendid * friths and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or past'ral Tay I, Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens *, o'erhung with spreading broom; * valleys. Or o'er your stretching heaths, by fancy led, Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! (t) Then will I drefs once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson (u) sat in Drummond's elatic * shade; * social. Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid I! the wi- Meantime, ye pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains (x), attend! Where'er HOME dwells $, on hill, or lowly moor, To him I loafe $, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!
Dr Johnson, in his life of Collins, informs us, that Dr Warton and his brother, who had seen this ode in the author's possession, thought it superior to his other works. The taste of the Wartons will hardly be ques- tioned; but we are not sure that the following Ode to the Passions has much less merit, though it be merit of a different kind, than the Ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands:
WHEN Mufic, heav'nly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Posset beyond the Mufe's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd. Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound:
(p) One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies, where it is reported, that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there. (q) Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where many of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings, are said to be interred. (r) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (s) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (t) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (u) Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot in 1619 to the Scotch poet Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within seven miles of Edinburgh. (x) Barrow, it seems, was at the university of Edinburgh, which is in the county of Lothian. And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the found himsel' had made.
Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret flings; In one rude clath he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair— Low fallen founds his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all her song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every clove, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had the song—but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stain'd word in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
And ever anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her foul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of fight seem'd bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to sought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy fat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul, And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.
But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder hung, Her bulkins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green;