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ODE TO PITY.
0 Thou, the friend of man, assigned With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe: When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his destined scene,
His wild unsated foe!
By Pella's bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
And eyes of dewy light!
But wherefore need I wander wide
Deserted stream, and mute?
Been soothed by Pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
To him thy cell was shown;
Thy turtles mixed their own.
Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
Thy temple's pride design:
In all who view the shrine.
There Picture's toils shall well relate
O'er mortal bliss prevail:
With each disastrous tale.
There let me oft, retired by day,
Allowed with thee to dwell:
To hear a British shell!
ODE TO FEAR.
Thou, to whom the world unknown,
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 disordered flv. For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fixed behold? Who stalks his round, an 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 joined, Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind: And those, the fiends, who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks, preside; Whilst 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 1
In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice, The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue;
The maids and matrons on her awful voice.
Yet he, the bard who first invoked thy name,
For not alone he nursed the poet's flame,
But reached from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.
But who is he whom later garlands grace,
With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,
Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, the incestuous queen
When once alone it broke the silent scene,
And he the wretch of Thebes no more appeared.
0 Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart:
Thy withering power inspired each mournful line:
Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Or, in some hollowed seat,
'Gainst wThich the big waves beat, 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: