What dear delight to Britons farce affords! Ever the taste of Mobs, but now of Lords: (Taste! that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eves) The play stands still; damn action and discourse! Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn; The Champion too! and, to complete the jest, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast. 319 WILLIAM COLLINS ODE TO SIMPLICITY [Publ. 1747] O THOU, by Nature taught, To breathe her genuine thought, In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; Who first, on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who, with hermit heart, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall; But comest a decent maid, In attic robe array'd, ΤΟ But staid to sing alone To one distinguish'd throne; And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in hall or bower, The Passions own thy power; Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean: For thou hast left her shrine; Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius, bless Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply, May court, may charm, our eye; O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call! Thou, only thou, caust raise the meeting ODE TO LIBERTY [Publ. 1747] STROPHE WHO shall awake the Spartan fife, And call in solemn sounds to life, The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue, At once the breath of fear and virtueshedding, Applauding Freedom loved of old to view? What new Alcæus, fancy-blest, Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest, At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing, 9 (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?) Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound! O goddess, in that feeling hour, When most its sounds would court thy ears, Let not my shell's misguided power E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. No, Freedom, no, I will not tell How Rome, before thy weeping face, With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell, Push'd by a wild and artless race From off its wide ambitious base, When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, And all the blended work of strength and grace, 20 With many a rude repeated stroke, And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke. EPODE 30 Yet, even waere'er the least appear'd, (O who could fear it ?) quench'd her flame. And lo, an humbler relic laid In jealous Pisa's olive shade! 40 4 Ah no! more pleased thy haunts I seek, 50 The perfect spell shall then avail, ANTISTROPHE 59 |