Fidele

To fair Fideles grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No witherd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gatherd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mournd till Pitys self be dead.

William Collins

William Collins was an important English poet of the 18th century, known for his lyrical odes. Though not prolific, his work significantly influenced Romantic poets. His poetry is characterized by its emotional depth and vivid imagery, often exploring themes of nature and the supernatural. Despite his talent, Collins struggled with mental health issues and died at a young age, leaving behind a relatively small but impactful body of work.

William Collins

Ode to Simplicity

William Collins, Simple Poetry

Ode To Evening

William Collins, Simple Poetry

An Ode On The Popular Superstitions Of The Highlands Of Scotland, Considered As The Subject Of Poetry

William Collins, Simple Poetry

A Song From Shakespeare's Cymbeline

William Collins, Simple Poetry

English

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A Song From Shakespeare's Cymbeline

To fair Fideles grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opning sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.


No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.


No witherd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!


The redbreast oft at evning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:
With hoary moss, and gatherd flowrs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.


When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chase on evry plain,
The tender th...

William Collins

Ode To Evening

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
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,
To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!

For ...

William Collins

An Ode On The Popular Superstitions Of The Highlands Of Scotland, Considered As The Subject Of Poetry

Home, thou returnst from Thames, whose naiads long
Have seen thee lingring with a fond delay
Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth
Whom, long endeard, thou leavst by Lavants side;
Together let us wish him lasting truth,
And joy untainted, with his destind bride.
Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-livd bliss, forget my social name;
But think far off how, on the southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turnst, whose evry vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand:
To thee thy copious subjects neer shall fail;
Thou needst but take the pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe who ...

William Collins

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, or Pleasure's, nurs'd 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 lovelorn woe
In ev'ning musings slow
Sooth'd 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 ho...

William Collins

Ode On The Poetical Character

As once, if not with light regard,
I read aright that gifted bard,
(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest,)
One, only one, unrivald fair,
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At solemn tourney hung on high,
The wish of each love-darting eye;
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unseen, some hovring hand,
Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame,
With whisperd spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loathd dishonourd side;
Happier, hopeless fair, if never
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour
Had touchd that fatal zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,
To whom, prepard and bathd in Heavn,
The cest of amplest powr is givn:
To few the god-like gift assigns,...

William Collins

The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto First

From Bolton's old monastic tower
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun shines bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of crystal Wharf,
Through the Vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company!
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,
That down the steep hills force their way,
Like cattle through the budded brooms;
Path, or no path, what care they?
And thus in joyous mood they hie
To Bolton's mouldering Priory.
What would they there? Full fifty years
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers,
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste
The bitterness of wrong and waste:
Its courts are ravaged; bu...

William Wordsworth