The keener tempests come: and fuming dun From all the livid East, or piercing North, 225 Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congeal'd. Heavy they roll their fleecy world along, And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm. 230 At first thin-wavering; till at last the flakes 'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts 235 Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid Sun Earth's universal face, deep-hid, and chill, Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is: 255 Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, By death in various forms-dark snares, and dogs, 260 And more unpitying men—the garden seeks, Urg'd on by fearless want. The bleating kind With looks of dumb despair; then, sad-dispers'd. Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround; They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth 325 And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah! little think they, while they dance along, How many sink in the devouring flood, With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,— 340 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, They furnish matter for the tragic Muse: Ev'n in the vale where wisdom loves to dwell, With Friendship, Peace, and Contemplation join'd, 345 How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep-retir'd distress: how many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, man Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, 350 That one incessant struggle render life, One scene of toil, of suff'ring, and of fate; Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think;. The conscious heart of Charity would warm, 355 And her wide wish Benevolence dilate; The social tear would rise, the social sigh And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work. And here can I forget the generous band, 360 Who, touch'd with human woe, search'd redressive Into the horrors of the gloomy jail? And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice. 365 While in the land of liberty-the land Whose every street and public meeting glow Tore from cold wintry limbs the tatter'd weed; 370 Even robb'd them of the last of comforts, sleep; The free-born Briton to the dungeon chain'd, Or, as the lust of cruelty prevail'd, At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes; And crush'd out lives, by secret barbarous ways, 375 That for their country would have toil'd, or bled. Oh great design! if executed well, With patient care and wisdom-temper'd zeal. Ye sons of mercy! yet resume the search; Drag forth the legal monsters into light, 380 Wrench from their hands Oppression's iron rod, And bid the cruel feel the pangs they give. Much still untouch'd remains; in this rank age, Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd. The toils of law,-what dark insidious men 385 Have cumbrous added, to perplex the truth, And lengthen simple justice into trade,- RULE BRITANNIA (1740) When Britain first at Heaven's command This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: 5 Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, While thou shalt flourish great and free, 10 The dread and envy of them all. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; 15 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; 20 To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; The Muses, still with Freedom found, 25 Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd And manly hearts to guard the fair:Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves! William Collins 1721-1759. ODE TO EVENING (From Odes, 1746) If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales, 5 O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired 15 sun, Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 10 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, To breath some softened strain, |