Ode Written In The Beginning Of The Year 1746

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 hallowed 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!

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

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

William Collins, Simple Poetry

Fidele

William Collins, Simple Poetry

Ode to Simplicity

William Collins, Simple Poetry

In The Downhill Of Life

William Collins, Simple Poetry

English

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How Sleep The Brave

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their countrys wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancys 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!

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

Ode, Composed On A May Morning

While from the purpling east departs
The star that led the dawn,
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
For May is on the lawn.
A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
Foreran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,
Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
Tempers the year's extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,
Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
The tremulous heart excite;
And hums the balmy air to still
The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when youth and maids
At peep of dawn would rise,
And wander forth, in forest glades
Thy birth to solemnize.
Though mute the song, to grace the rite
Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Thy S...

William Wordsworth

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

Ode

(Written on the FIRST of DECEMBER, 1793.)

Tho' now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze
That lingers o'er the green wood shade,
    I love thee Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,
Sweet is the summer's evening gale,
Pleasant the autumnal winds that shake
    The many-colour'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul
The silence of the wintry scene,
When Nature shrouds her in her trance

Not undelightful now to roam
The wild heath sparkling on the sight;
Not undelightful now to pace
    The forest's ample rounds;

And see the spangled branches shine,
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
    Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

The cluster'd berries ...

Robert Southey