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.

December 25, 1721

June 12, 1759

English

William Collins

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

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

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 dwel...

William Collins

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

In The Downhill Of Life

In the downhill of life, when I find Im declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that oerlooks the wide sea;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace oer the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail;
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
Ill envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secure...

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 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 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

Ode to Liberty

(STROPHE)

Who shall awake the Spartan fife,
And call in solemn sounds to life
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of Fear and Virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alcæus, fancy-blest,
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,
At Wisdom's shrine a-while its flame concealing,
(What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?)
Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound!
O Goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,
Let not my shell's misguided pow'r,
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy weeping face,
With heavie...

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

The Passions, An Ode to Music

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound,
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger...

William Collins