4 Not far beneath the hero's feet, Nor from the legislator's seat Stands far remote the bard. Though not with public terrors crown'd. Yet wider shall his rule be found, More lasting his award. 5 Lycurgus fashion'd Sparta's fame, And Pompey to the Roman name Gave universal sway: Where are they?--Homer's reverend page Holds empire to the thirtieth age, And tongues and climes obey. 6 And thus when William's acts divine No longer shall from Bourbon's line Draw one vindictive vow; When Sydney shall with Cato rest, And Russel move the patriot's breast No more than Brutus now; 7 Yet then shall Shakspeare's powerful art O'er every passion, every heart, Confirm his awful throne: Tyrants shall bow before his laws; And Freedom's, Glory's, Virtue's cause, Their dread assertor own. ODE VIII. ON LEAVING HOLLAND. I.--1. Farewell to Leyden's lonely bound. The Belgian Muse's sober seat; Where, dealing frugal gifts around To all the favourites at her feet, She trains the body's bulky frame For passive persevering toils; And lest, from any prouder aim, The daring mind should scorn her homely spoils, She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame. I.--2. Farewell the grave, pacific air, Where never mountain zephyr blew: The marshy levels lank and bare, Which Pan, which Ceres never knew: The Naiads, with obscene attire, Urging in vain their urns to flow; While round them chant the croaking choir, And haply soothe some lover's prudent woe, Or prompt some restive bard and modulate his lyre. I.--3. Farewell, ye nymphs, whom sober care of gain Snatch'd in your cradles from the god of Love: She render'd all his boasted arrows vain; And all his gifts did he in spite remove. Ye too, the slow-eyed fathers of the land, With whom dominion steals from hand to hand, Unown'd, undignified by public choice, I go where Liberty to all is known, And tells a monarch on his throne, He reigns not but by her preserving voice. II.--1 O my loved England, when with thee Shall I sit down, to part no more? Far from this pale, discolour'd sea, That sleeps upon the reedy shore: When shall I plough thy azure tide? When on thy hills the flocks admire, Like mountain snows; till down their side I trace the village and the sacred spire, While bowers and copses green the golden slope divide? II.--2.