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overcloudled the rest of his life: he sunk gradually into a sort of melancholy, and died in 1756, in a state of helpless insanity.

« The works of Collins," says Campbell, “ will abide coniparison with whatever Milton wrote under the age of thirty. If they have rather less exuberant wealth of genius, they have more exquisite touches of pathos. Like Milton, he leads us into the haunted ground of imagination: like him, he has the rich econoiny of expression haloed with thought, which by single or few words often hints entire pictures to the imagination. A cloud of obscurity sometimes rests on his highest conceptions, arising from the fineness of his associations, and the daring sweep of his allusions; but the shadow is tran. sitory, and interferes very little with the light of his imagery or the warnth of his feelings. His genius loved to breathe rather in the preternatural and idral element of poetry, than in the atmosphere of imitation, which lies closest 10 real life. He carried sensibility and tenderness into the highest regions of abstracted thought: his enthusiasm spreads a glow even amongst the shadowy tribes of mind;' and his allegory is as sensible to the heart as it is visible to the fancy." 2

ODE TO FEAR.3
Thou, to whom the world unknown,
With all its shadowy shapes, is shown,
Who seest appallid the unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between :

Ab, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!

I see--I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disorder d fly,
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, a hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,

1 "In the year 1756 died our lamented Collins; one of our most exquisite poets, and of whom, perhaps, without exaggeration, it may be asserted, that he partook of the credulity and enthusiasm of Tasso, the magic wildness of Shakspeare, the sublimity of Milton, and the pathos of Oasian."- Drake's Literary Hours.

" He had a wonderful combination of excellencies. United to splendor and sublimity of imagina. tion, he had a richness of erudition, a keenness of research, a nicety of taste, and an elegance and truth of moral reflection, which astonished those who had the luck to be intimate with him."-Sir E. Brydger.

2 * Of all our minor poets, that is, those who have attempted only short pieces, Collins is probably the one who has shown most of the highest qualities of poetry, and who excites the most intense interest in the bosom of the reader. He soars into the regions of imagination, and occuples the highest peaks of Parnassus. His fancy is glowing and vivid, but at the same time hasty and obscure. He has the true inspiration of the poet. He heats and melts objects in the fervor of us genius, as iv a furnace." - Hazlitt.

3 Collins, who had often determined to apply himself to dramatic poetry, seems here, with the same View, to have addressed one of the principal powers of the drama, and to implore that mighty influ. ence she had given to the genius of Shakspeare. In the construction of this nervous ode he has Down equal power of judgment and imagination. Nothing can be more striking than the violent and abrupt abbreviation of the measure in the Arth and sixth verses, when the poet seems to feel Ibe strong influence of the power he invokes:

** Ah, Fear-ah, frantic Fear!

I see I see the near."

Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep:
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind:
And those, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare:
On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought?
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought,
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Neer be I found, by thee o'erawed,
In that thrice-hallow'd evel abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thoi, whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast !
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

EPODE.
In eurliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,

The grief-ful Muse addrest her infant tongue:
The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the Bard 1 who first invoked thy name,

Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nursed the poet's flame,

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

ODE TO EVENING.?

But who is he, whom later garlands grace,

Who left awhile o'er Hybla's3 dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove?

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous Queen"

Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,

And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more appear'd. O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,

Thy withering power inspired each mournful line, Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.

If aught 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 reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hush'd, save where the wenk-eyed 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, bome in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften'd strain,

ANTISTROPHE. Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last ? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? Or in some hollow'd seat, 'Gainst which the big waves beat,

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1 The Greek tragic poet, Æschylus, who was in the battle of Marathon, between the Alben and Perslans, B. C. 490.

? Sophocles, another Greek dramatic poet. 3 Isybla was a mountain in Sicily, famous for its honey and bees. 4 Jocasta, the queen of Thebes, who, after the death of her husband Lalus, married her own son Faipus (whom Collins here calls the "wretch") without knowing who he was. On this story founded that most sublime ind pathetic tragedy, the “Edipus Tyrannus" of Sophocles.

E here allades to the old superstitions connected with All-Hallow Even, or Hallow

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Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought?
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought,
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'erawed,
In that thrice-hallow'd evel abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou, whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

ODE TO EVENING.”

If aught 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 reserved, while now the bright-haird sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hush'd, save where the wenk-eyed 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, borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften'd strain,

1 He here alludes to the old superstitions connected with Al-Hallow Even, or Hallow E'en--the last evening of October.

9 Though blank verse had been so successfully employed in English heroic measure by one of the greatest poets that ever lived, and made the vehicle of the noblest poem that ever was written, yet no one had introduced it into lyric poetry before Collins. That he is most happy and successful in the use of it, who can doubt after reading this exquisite “Ole to Evening," the imagery and enthusiasm of which must render it delightful to every reader of taste!

"Collins has given but one entire instance of reflecting the scenery of nature as from a poetical mirror. This is the Ode to Evening. Almost all else is the embodiment of intellect. But this single Specimen is perfect in its way. There is not one idle epithet or ill-chosen image:- the novelty and happiness of combination show invention even here; though nature is neither added to nor heightened." -- Sir Egerton Brydgu,

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Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star, arising, shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant hours, and elves

Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car;
Then let me rove some wild and heatly scene,
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent 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 showers, as oft he wont
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes :
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!

But thou, O Hope with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance bail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She callid on Echo still through all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every closc,
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung—but, with a frown,

THE PASSIONS.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC."

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell,

companied them, having in themselves httle more merit than that of an ne save the whole soul and power of poetry-expression that, even

to the heart; and imagery of power enough to transport the attentio ance of corresponding sounds. What then must have been the effects of the

ope in this ode is beautiful almost beyond Imitation. By the united buy, tant delightful being is exhibited with all the charms and graces the appropriated to her. The descriptions of Joy, Jealousy, and Revenge, are

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If the music which was composed for this ode had equal merit with the been the most excellent performance of the kind in which poetry and musica united. Other pieces of the same nature have derived their greatest reputation

80: those of Melancholy and Cheerfulneas are superior to every thu

whole, there may be very little bazard in asserting that this is the fi xe, Read-Observations on Collins's Poems in 'he 58th vol. of Johnso"

ith the ode itsell, it must have etry and music have, in modern time

t reputation from the persoon

B

, upon the whole, there may be ve ak kagage. Bead-Observato

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fireil,
Fillid with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness ruled 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,

E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings ownd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair-

Low sullen sounds his grief beguileil,
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 promised 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 callid on Echo still through all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung—but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his blood-stain d sword 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.

of the inusic that accompanied them, having in themselves little more merit than that of an ordinary ballad: but in this we have the whole soul and power of poetry expression that, even without the ald of music, strikes to the heart; and imagery of power enough to transport the attention without the forceful alliance of corresponding sounds. What then must have been the effects of these united 1

The picture of Hope in this ode is beautiful almost beyond imitation. By the united powers of Imagery and harmony, that delightful being is exhibited with all the charms and graces that pleasure and fancy have appropriated to her. The descriptions of Joy, Jealousy, and Revenge, are excellent, though rot equally so: those of Melancholy and Cheerfulness are superior to every thing of the kind; and, upon the whole, there may be very little hazard in asserting that this is the finest ode in the English language. Read-Observations on Collins's Poems in 'he 58th vol. of Johnson's Pocis.

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