Nor less admire those things, which viewed apart Uncouth appear, or horrid; ridges black Of shagged rocks, which hang tremendous o'er Some barren heath; the congregated clouds Which spread their sable skirts, and wait the wind To burst th' embosomed storm; a leafless wood, A mouldering ruin, lightning-blasted fields; Nay, e'en the seat where Desolation reigns In brownest horror; by familiar thought Connected to this universal frame, With equal beauty charms the tasteful soul As the gold landscapes of the happy isles Crowned with Hesperian fruit: for Nature formed One plan entire, and made each separate scene Co-operate with the general of all In that harmonious contrast. * * * * * From these sweet meditations on the charms Of things external, on the genuine forms Which blossom in creation, on the scene Where mimic art with emulative hue Usurps the throne of Nature unreproved, On the just concord of mellifluent sounds; The soul, and all the intellectual train Of fond desires, gay hopes, or threatening fears, Through this habitual intercourse of sense Is harmonized within, till all is fair And perfect; till each moral power perceives Its own resemblance, with fraternal joy, In every form complete, and smiling feels Beauty and Good the same. WILLIAM COLLINS ODE Written in the beginning of the year 1746 How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed 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! ODE TO EVENING 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, O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired 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, 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 breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding-star, arising, shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and elves Who slept in flowers the day,