In Gothic pride it seems to rise!

Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic thro' the mix'd design:

The secret builder knew to choose

Each sphere-found gem of richest hues:

Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains, When nearer suns emblaze its veins :

There on the walls the Patriot's sight

May ever hang with fresh delight,

And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,

Read Albion's fame thro' every age.

Ye forms divine! ye laureate band
That near her inmost altar stand,

Now sooth her to her blissful train,
Blithe Concord's social form to gain:
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep

Even Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep!

Before whose breathing bosom's balm,

Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;

Here let our sires and matrons hoar

Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore,

Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,

Play with the tangles of her hair,

Till, in one loud applauding sound,

The nations shout to her around,

Oh how supremely art thou blest?

Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the West!

ODE

TO A LADY,

ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL CHARLES ROSS,

IN THE ACTION AT FONTEΝΟΥ,

WRITTEN MAY, M DCCXLV.

WHILE, lost to all his former mirth,

Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While stain'd with blood he strives to tear,

Unseemly, from his sea-green hair,

The wreaths of cheerful May:

The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,

Your faithful hours attend:

Still Fancy, to herself unkind,

Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,

And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheldt's descending wave,

His country's vows shall bless the

Where'er the youth is laid:

That sacred spot the village hind

grave,

With every sweetest turf shall bind,

And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,

Aërial forms shall sit at eve,