ODE TO PITY.

O thou, the friend of man, assign'd

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'sbard, a magic name,

By all the griefs his thought could frame,

Receive my humble rite:

Long, Pity, let the nations view

The sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,

And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide

To old Ilissus’ distant side,

Deserted stream, and mute?

Wild Aruntoo has heard thy strains,

And Echo,‘ midst my native plains,

Been soothed by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles shed

On gentlest Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shown;

And while he sung the female heart,

With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art,

Thy turtles mix'd their own.

Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,

E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride design:

Its southern site, its truth complete,

Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat

In all who view the shrine.

There Picture's toils shall well relate

How chance, or hard involving fate,

O'er mortal bliss prevail:

The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,

And sighing prompt her tender hand,

With each disastrous tale.

There let me oft, retired by day,

In dreams of passion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell:

There waste the mournful lamp of night,

Till, Virgin, thou again delight

To hear a British shell!