Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings, With woful measures wan Despair- But thou, O Hope with eyes so fair, Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd 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. 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 music 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 aid 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 ! 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 not 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 the 58th vol. of Johnson's Poets. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught 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 up-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. To some unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. O Music, sphere-descended maid, Why, Goddess, why, to us denied, ODE TO THE BRAVE. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, ODE TO MERCY.1 STROPHE. O Thou, who sitt'st a smiling bride Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best adored: Who oft with songs, divine to hear, Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword! 1 The Ode to the Brave, written in 1746, and the Ode to Mercy, seem to have been written on the same occasion, namely, the Scotch Rebellion of 1746, when the young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, after landing in Scotland and routing the English forces, was utterly defeated at Culloden. The subsequent devastations of the Highlands by the English were dreadful and bloody in the highest degree; and well might our gifted poet invoke the genius of Mercy. Thou who, amidst the deathful field, Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground: And decks thy altar still, though pierced with many a wound ANTISTROPHE, When he whom e'en our joys provoke, The fiend of Nature join'd his yoke, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey; Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. I see recoil his sable steeds, That bore him swift to savage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own; To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne! 1 This ode on the Death of Thomson seems to have been written during an excursion to Richmond on the Thames. "Collins had skill to complain." Of that mournful melody, and those tender images, which are the distinguishing excellencies of such pieces as bewail departed friendship or beauty, he was almost an unequalled master. 2 The harp of olus of which see a description in Thomson's Castle of Indolence. SAMUEL RICHARDSON. 1689-1761. SAMUEL RICHARDSON, who may be said to be the inventor of the modern English novel, was the son of a carpenter in Derbyshire, and was born in 1689. From the limited means of his father, he was restricted to a common school education, which is very apparent in the structure of his composition. He early exhibited, however, the most decisive marks of genius, and was re 1 Thomson was buried in Richmond church. 2 Thomson resided in the neighborhood of Richmond some time before his death. |