O come, in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdu'd delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet,
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye,

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning through this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temp❜rate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek,
To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage,
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet :
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou, O Nymph retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss rose and vi’let blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And ev'ry storm is laid?

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whisp'ring through the shade.

MRS. BARBAULD.

CHAP. XIII.

ODE TO FEAR.

THOU, to whom the world unknown
With all it's shad'wy shapes is shown;
Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between :
Ah, 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 imortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, a hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
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 accurs'd 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, expos'd and bare :

On whom that rav'ning brood of Fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghastly train tan see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

Thou who such weary lengths hast pass'd,
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,

Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought,
Dark pow'r, with shudd'ring meek submitted Thought?
Be mine, to read the visions old,

Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
The pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou whose spirit most possess'd
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 mecd decree,
And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee.

COLLINS.

CHAP. XIV.

ODE TO TRUTH.

SAY, will no white-rob'd Son of Light,
Swift darting from his heav'nly height,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Here wave his amber locks; unfold
His pinions cloth'd with downy gold;
Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?
And you, ye host of Saints, for ye have known
Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,
Though now ye circle yon eternal throne,
With harpings high of inexpressive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state,
To break with Mercy's beam this gath'ring cloud of Fate?
"Tis silence all. No Son of Light
Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height.
No train of radiant Saints descend.
Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,

If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind,

"Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend."

So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound

Burst from the centre of her burning throne:

Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd:

A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone.

So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear: With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear. "Attend, ye Sons of Men; attend, and say, "Does not enough of my refulgent ray "Break through the veil of your mortality? "Say, does not Reason in this form descry "Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass

"The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace? "Shall then your earth-born daughters vie "With me?Shall she, whose brightest eye "But emulates the di'mond's blaze, "Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom, "Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume,

"Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,

"Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form "Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,

"Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm "Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day

"Shall pass, and she is gone; while I appear

"Flush'd with the bloom of youth through Heav'n's eternal 66 year.

"Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung, "Ere first these orbs in ether hung,

"I shone amid the heav'nly throng; "These eyes beheld Creation's day, "This voice began the choral lay,

And taught archangels their triumphant song. "Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth, "Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread, "Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, "And Ocean heave on it's extended bed; "Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky, "The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly. "Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, "Heav'n's hallow'd. image stamp'd upon his face; And, as he rose, the high behest was given "That I alone, of all the host of Heav'n, "Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth:

"Thus the Almighty spake : he spake and call'd me Truth."

CHAP. XV.

ODE TO FANCY.

O PARENT of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd falling of the flock,
But flow'rs and honey from the rock.

MASON.