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Deserted stream, and mute ?
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.
There first the wren in myrtles, shed
To him thy cell was shewn;
Ihy turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
Thy temple's pride design:
In all who view the shrine..
There Picture's toils shall well relate,
O'er mortal bliss prevail :
With each disastrous tale.
There let me aft, retir'd by day,
Allow'd with thee to dwell:
To hear a British shell!
• The river Arun runs by the village in Sussex, where Otway had his birth,
ODE TO FEAR.
THOU, to whom the world unknown,
With all its shadowy shapes, is shewn;
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue;
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.
Yet he, the bard * who first invok'd thy name,
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,
But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.
But who is he whom later garlands grace;
Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,
Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove?
Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous t queen
Sigh'd tlie sad call I her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,
And he thę wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.
O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart:
Thy withering power inspir'd each' mournful line: Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Or, in some hollow'd seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries, in tempests brought? Dark power, with shudd'ring meek subnitted thought. * Æschylus.
85 Et' opwper bon Ην μεν Σιωπη; φθεγμα δ' εξαιφνης τινος
Θωυξεν αυλον, ωστε σανίας ορθιας . Στησαι φοβω δεισανίας εξαιφνης Τριχας.
See the (Edip. Colon. of Sophocles.
Be mine to read the visions old
O thou whose spirit most possest
ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
THOU, by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought,
Who first, on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thou, who, with hermit heart,
Disdain'st the wealth of art,
But com'st a decent maid,
Thou Tosca Tants
By all the honey'd store
On Hybla's thymy shiore;
By her * whose love-lorn woe,
In evening musings slow,
By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep,
On whose enamell'd side,
When holy Freedom died,
O sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth,
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
While Rome could none esteem
But virtue's patriot theme,
But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish'd throne;
No more, in hall or bow'r,
The Passions own thy power ;
For thou hast left her shrine;
Nor olive more, nor vine,
* The andwy, or nightingale, for which Sophocles eens to have entertained a peculiar fondness.