Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field, And gaze with fix'd delight; Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 35 And wish the avenging fight. But lo, where, sunk in deep despair, Her garments torn, her bosom bare, Impatient Freedom lies! Her matted tresses madly spread, 40 To every sod, which wraps the dead, She turns her joyless eyes. Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground Till notes of triumph bursting round Proclaim her reign restored: 45 Till William seek the sad retreat, And, bleeding at her sacred feet, Present the sated sword. If, weak to soothe so soft a heart, These pictured glories nought impart, 50 To dry thy constant tear: If, yet, in Sorrow's distant eye, Exposed and pale thou see'st him lie, Wild War insulting near: Where'er from time thou court'st relief, 55 The Muse shall still, with social grief, Her gentlest promise keep; Even humbled Harting's cottaged vale[33] Shall learn the sad repeated tale, And bid her shepherds weep. 60 VARIATIONS. Ver. 4. While sunk in grief he strives to tear 19. E'en now regardful of his doom Applauding Honour haunts his tomb, With shadowy trophies crown'd: Whilst Freedom's form beside her roves, Majestic through the twilight groves, And calls her heroes round. 19. O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve, Aërial forms shall sit at eve, And bend the pensive head; And, fallen to save his injured land, Imperial Honour's awful hand Shall point his lonely bed. 31. Old Edward's sons, untaught to yield, 49. If, drawn by all a lover's art, 58. Even humble Harting's cottaged vale FOOTNOTES: [33] Harting, a village adjoining the parish of Trotton, and about two miles distant from it. ODE TO EVENING. If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own brawling springs, Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun 5 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 10 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, 15 To breathe some soften'd strain,