WILLIAM COLLINS

No more, in hall or bow'r,

The passions own thy pow'r. Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean;

For thou hast left her shrine,

Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

Though taste, though genius bless

To some divine excess, Faint J s the cold work till thou inspire the whole ;

What each, what all supply,

May court, may charm our eye, Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul !

Of these let others ask,

To aid some mighty task, I only seek to find thy temperate vale ;

Where oft my reed might sound

To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.

How sleep the Brave

T T OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest

• By all their country's wishes blest !

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there !

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