Classic Poem

ODE XXXVII.

TO PETY.

written, in part, at cardington in bedfordshire, while standing near a root-house, in the garden belonging to join howard .

I

Hence , motley mirth, and wanton song,
That move in airy mood along,
Too rapt in bliss a tear to heed!
  Hence, too, dull ease,
  Intent, thyself to please;
Who, with unalter'd eye, the wretch's tale canst read.

II.

But, come with eyes of blue, oh! maid,
In light cærulean robes array'd,
Come, Pity, sprung of gentlest race;
Oh! nymph, I love thy pallid face;
Thy pensive gait, thy gentle sigh,
The still, meek language of thine eye;
Where as the dew-drop, soft and clear,
Unbidden steals the virgin-tear:
Oh! come, and by this root-twin'd mossy seat,
Still on thy votary smile, still bless this calm retreat.
III.

I love the bard, whose martial song
Thrills the full-sounding chords along;
How well agree the deep-ton'd strings
To slaughtering heroes, dying kings!
But thou, retir'd, art wont from far
To hear the shouts and cries of war;
To sit with trembling, dove-like eyes,
Unseen to breathe impassioned sighs;
And while the bard pours forth th' immortal strain,
To muse on widow'd wives, and “ chiefs untimely slain .”

IV.

And, hail you darksome dreary cells!
—There pale imprison'd madness dwells!
Now deep she sighs, like wretch forlorn,
Then clinks the galling chain in scorn!
She now the thunder's rage can dare!
Then looks like stony-ey'd Despair!—
Wan sufferer! friendless and alone,
I hear her breathe the hopeless groan;
Yet not unoft, low-bending at the grate,
'Tis thine, like pilgrim pale, in speechless woe to wait.

V.

Nor less where generous Edward's name
Recorded shines in deathless fame;
There art thou wont to walk around,
('Tis thine own consecrated ground,)
To mark, near sick-bed bending meek,
The hollow eye, the fading cheek,
The faultering tongue, the panting breath,
The last farewell, the groan in death.
As lamps in midnight vaults are wont to gleam,
'Tis thine to live 'midst woe;—and death thy favourite theme.

VI.

Does Truth lament a tyrant's reign,
Or sink beneath the galling chain?
Amid the drooping, near the dead,
I view thee pass with silent tread,
Near gallies, fill'd with generous slaves,
Or dungeons, turn'd to martyrs graves!
While cities crimson currents pour,
And streams run, dyed with human gore;
Crimes, which nor genius, learning, prayer, nor power,
Shall save from Freedom's curse, from Freedom's vengeful hour.

VII.

Rise, hallow'd forms of martyrs, rise!
And breathe, oh! France, thy plaintive sighs!
Speak to this heart your tale of woe;
There wake the sympathetic glow.
Long as I view yon lamp of day,
Long as I view the moon's pale ray,
As night's lone bird her ravag'd brood
Moans in soft sadness through the wood,
So shall my verse complain for man oppress'd,
Nor Howard blush to hear; and THOU shalt thrill his breast.