The keener tempests come: and fuming dun From all the livid East, or piercing North, 225 Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congeal'd. Heavy they roll their fleecy world along,

And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm.
Thro' the hush'd air the whitening shower de-
scends,

230 At first thin-wavering; till at last the flakes
Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherish'd fields
Put on their winter-robe of purest white.

'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts 235 Along the mazy current. Low the woods

Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid Sun
Faint from the West emits his evening ray,

Earth's universal face, deep-hid, and chill,

Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
240 The works of Man. Drooping, the labourer-ox
Stands cover'd o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
245 Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The red-breast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
250 His annual visit. Half afraid, he first

Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,

And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is: 255 Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds

Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare,
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset

By death in various forms-dark snares, and dogs, 260 And more unpitying men—the garden seeks,

Urg'd on by fearless want. The bleating kind
Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening
earth,

With looks of dumb despair; then, sad-dispers'd.
Dig for the wither'd herb thro' heaps of snow.

Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround; They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth 325 And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;

Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death
And all the sad variety of pain.

How many sink in the devouring flood,
330 Or more devouring flame; how many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man:
How many pine in want and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs: How many drink the cup
335 Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty: how many shake

With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,— 340 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, They furnish matter for the tragic Muse:

Ev'n in the vale where wisdom loves to dwell, With Friendship, Peace, and Contemplation join'd,

345 How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep-retir'd distress: how many stand

Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond

man

Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, 350 That one incessant struggle render life,

One scene of toil, of suff'ring, and of fate; Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think;. The conscious heart of Charity would warm, 355 And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;

The social tear would rise, the social sigh And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work. And here can I forget the generous band, 360 Who, touch'd with human woe, search'd

redressive

Into the horrors of the gloomy jail?
Unpitied and unheard, where misery moans;
Where Sickness pines; where Thirst and Hunger
burn,

And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice. 365 While in the land of liberty-the land

Whose every street and public meeting glow
With open freedom-little tyrants rag'd;
Snatch'd the lean morsel from the starving
mouth;

Tore from cold wintry limbs the tatter'd weed; 370 Even robb'd them of the last of comforts, sleep; The free-born Briton to the dungeon chain'd, Or, as the lust of cruelty prevail'd,

At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes; And crush'd out lives, by secret barbarous ways, 375 That for their country would have toil'd, or bled. Oh great design! if executed well,

With patient care and wisdom-temper'd zeal. Ye sons of mercy! yet resume the search; Drag forth the legal monsters into light, 380 Wrench from their hands Oppression's iron rod, And bid the cruel feel the pangs they give. Much still untouch'd remains; in this rank age,

Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd. The toils of law,-what dark insidious men 385 Have cumbrous added, to perplex the truth,

And lengthen simple justice into trade,-
How glorious were the day that saw these broke,
And every man within the reach of right!

RULE BRITANNIA

(1740)

When Britain first at Heaven's command
Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of her land,

And guardian angels sung the strain: 5 Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turn to tyrants fall, While thou shalt flourish great and free, 10 The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.

15 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.

20

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;

25 Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd

And manly hearts to guard the fair:Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves!

William Collins

1721-1759.

ODE TO EVENING

(From Odes, 1746)

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,

5 O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired

15

sun,

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 10 With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern

wing;

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,

To breath some softened strain,