14 Ye mighty shades, arise, give place, attend: Here his eternal mansion Curio seeks. Low doth proud Wentworth to the stranger bend, And his dire welcome hardy Clifford speaks:-- 'He comes, whom fate with surer arts prepared To accomplish all which we but vainly dared; Whom o'er the stubborn herd she taught to reign: Who soothed with gaudy dreams their raging power Even to its last irrevocable hour; Then baffled their rude strength, and broke them to the chain.' 15 But ye, whom yet wise Liberty inspires, Whom for her champions o'er the world she claims (That household godhead whom of old your sires Sought in the woods of Elbe and bore to Thames), Drive ye this hostile omen far away; Their own fell efforts on her foes repay; Your wealth, your arts, your fame, be hers alone: Still gird your swords to combat on her side; Still frame your laws her generous test to abide; And win to her defence the altar and the throne. 16 Protect her from yourselves, ere yet the flood Of golden Luxury, which Commerce pours, Hath spread that selfish fierceness through your blood, Which not her lightest discipline endures: Snatch from fantastic demagogues her cause: Dream not of Numa's manners, Plato's laws: A wiser founder, and a nobler plan, O sons of Alfred, were for you assign'd: Bring to that birthright but an equal mind, And no sublimer lot will fate reserve for man. [Footnote 1: 'To Curio:' see _Life_.] ODE X. TO THE MUSE. 1 Queen of my songs, harmonious maid, Ah! why hast thou withdrawn thy aid? Ah! why forsaken thus my breast With inauspicious damps oppress'd? Where is the dread prophetic heat With which my bosom wont to beat? Where all the bright mysterious dreams Of haunted groves and tuneful streams, That woo'd my genius to divinest themes? 2 Say, goddess, can the festal board, Or young Olympia's form adored; Say, can the pomp of promised fame Relume thy faint, thy dying flame? Or have melodious airs the power To give one free, poetic hour? Or, from amid the Elysian train, The soul of Milton shall I gain, To win thee back with some celestial strain? 3 O powerful strain! O sacred soul! His numbers every sense control: And now again my bosom burns; The Muse, the Muse herself returns. Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd, I hail'd the fair immortal guest, When first she seal'd me for her own, Made all her blissful treasures known, And bade me swear to follow Her alone. ODE XI. ON LOVE. TO A FRIEND. 1 No, foolish youth--to virtuous fame If now thy early hopes be vow'd, If true ambition's nobler flame Command thy footsteps from the crowd, Lean not to Love's enchanting snare; His songs, his words, his looks beware, Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.