Meek animal, whose simple mien Provokes th’ insulting eye of Spleen To mock the melancholy trait Of patience in thy front display’d, By thy Great Author fitly so pourtray’d, To character the sorrows of thy fate; Say, Heir of misery, what to thee Is life?—A long, long, gloomy stage Through the sad vale of labour and of pain! No pleasure hath thine youth, no rest thine age, Nor in the vasty round of this terrene Hast thou a friend to set thee free, Till Death, perhaps too late, In the dark evening of thy cheerless day, Shall take thee, fainting on thy way, From the rude storm of unresisted hate. Yet dares the erroneous crowd to mark With folly thy despised race, Th’ ungovernable pack, who bark With impious howlings in Heaven’s awful face, If e’er on their impatient head Affliction’s bitter show’r is shed. But ’tis the weakness of thy kind Meekly to bear the inevitable sway; The wisdom of the human mind Is to murmur and obey. ODE TO THE LYRIC MUSE. SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT THE INSTALLATION OF LORD NORTH, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. STROPHE I. Fair sov’reign of the golden lyre, Descend, Thalia, from th’ enchanted grove Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove, List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire; The ling’ring sounds that yet respire Waked by the breezes of the Western main; And bring some high and solemn strain, Such as was heard that solemn day When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty Struck on the magic harp her dying song.— Dealing vengeance on her foes, The mortal Genius of battle rose, And call’d Despair and Death to lead her host along. STROPHE II. O, Muse divine! whene’er thy strain Devotes the tyrant head to shame, The Patriot Virtues brighten in thy train; And Glory hears the loud appeal; And thou, unconquerable flame, First-born of ancient Freedom, Public Zeal: Thou in the dark and dreary hour When Tyranny her dragon-wing outspread, And Sloth a sullen influence shed, And every coward Vice that loves the night Revell’d on Corsica’s ill-fated shore; Thou didst one dauntless heart inflame, Lo, PAOLI, father of his country, came, And with a giant-voice Cried, “Liberty!” unto the drowsy race That slept in Slav’ry’s dull embrace; Roused at the sound, they hail’d thy glorious choice, And ev’ry manly breast Shook off the unnerving load of rest; And Virtue chasing the foul forms of night, Rose like a summer sun, and shed a golden light. ANTISTROPHE I.