Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue Thro’ richest purple to the view Betray’d a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch’d in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat’s averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch’d, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) The slipp’ry verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mew’d to ev’ry wat’ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr’d: Nor cruel _Tom_, nor _Susan_ heard. A Fav’rite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold. WILLIAM COLLINS 1721-1759 _457._ _Ode to Simplicity_ O thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong: Who first on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe and Pleasure’s, nursed the pow’rs of song! Thou, who with hermit heart Disdain’st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall: But com’st a decent maid, In Attic robe array’d, O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call! By all the honey’d store On Hybla’s thymy shore, By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear, By her whose love-lorn woe, In evening musings slow, Soothed sweetly sad Electra’s poet’s ear: By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wand’rings round thy green retreat; On whose enamell’d side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allured thy future feet! O sister meek of Truth, To my admiring youth Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! The flow’rs that sweetest breathe, Though beauty cull’d the wreath, Still ask thy hand to range their order’d hues. While Rome could none esteem, But virtue’s patriot theme, You loved her hills, and led her laureate band; But stay’d to sing alone To one distinguish’d throne, And turn’d thy face, and fled her alter’d land. 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.