Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/556

 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.

Though taste, though genius bless To some divine excess, Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply, May court, may charm our eye, Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!

Of these let others ask, To aid some mighty task, I only seek to find thy temperate vale; Where oft my reed might sound To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.

458. How sleep the Brave

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!