ODE XVI.

With sordid floods the wintry Urn

Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green;

Her naked hill the Dryads mourn,

No longer a poetic scene.

No longer there the raptured eye

The beauteous forms of earth or sky

Surveys as in their Author's mind;

And London shelters from the year

Those whom thy social hours to share

The Attic Muse design'd.

From Hampstead's airy summit me

Her guest the city shall behold,

What day the people's stern decree

To unbelieving kings is told,

When common men ( the dread of fame )

Adjudged as one of evil name,

Before the sun, the anointed head.

Then seek thou too the pious town,

With no unworthy cares to crown

That evening's awful shade.

Deem not I call thee to deplore

The sacred martyr of the day,

By fast, and penitential lore

To purge our ancient guilt away.

For this, on humble faith I rest

That still our advocate, the priest,

From heavenly wrath will save the land;

Nor ask what rites our pardon gain,

Nor how his potent sounds restrain

The thunderer's lifted hand.

No, Hardinge; peace to church and state!

That evening, let the Muse give law;

While I anew the theme relate

Which my first youth enamour'd saw.

Then will I oft explore thy thought,

What to reject which Locke hath taught,

What to pursue in Virgil's lay;

Till hope ascends to loftiest things,

Nor envies demagogues or kings

Their frail and vulgar sway.

O versed in all the human frame,

Lead thou where'er my labour lies,

And English fancy's eager flame

To Grecian purity chastise;

While hand in hand, at Wisdom's shrine,

Beauty with truth I strive to join,

And grave assent with glad applause;

To paint the story of the soul,

And Plato's visions to control

By Verulamian laws.