ODE
TO
LIBERTY
.
BY
THE
SAME
.
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
Alcaeus
Alluding
to
a
beautiful
fragment
of
Alcaeus
;
fancy-blest
,
Shall
sing
the
sword
in
myrtles
drest
,
At
Wisdom's
shrine
awhile
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
power
E'er
draw
thy
sad
,
thy
mindful
tears
.
No
,
Freedom
,
no
,
I
will
not
tell
,
How
Rome
,
before
thy
weeping
face
,
With
heaviest
sound
,
a
giant-statue
,
fell
,
Push'd
by
a
wild
and
artless
race
From
off
its
wide
ambitious
base
,
When
Time
his
northern
sons
of
spoil
awoke
,
And
all
the
blended
work
of
strength
and
grace
,
With
many
a
rude
repeated
stroke
,
And
many
a
barbarous
yell
,
to
thousand
fragments
broke
.
EPODE
.
Yet
even
,
where'er
the
least
appear'd
,
Th'
admiring
world
thy
hand
rever'd
;
Still
,
'midst
the
scatter'd
states
around
,
Some
remnants
of
her
strength
were
found
;
They
saw
,
by
what
escap'd
the
storm
,
How
wonderous
rose
her
perfect
form
;
How
in
the
great
,
the
labour'd
whole
,
Each
mighty
master
pour'd
his
soul
!
For
sunny
Florence
,
seat
of
art
,
Beneath
her
vines
preserv'd
a
part
,
Till
they
The
family
of
the
Medici
.
,
whom
Science
lov'd
to
name
,
(
O
who
could
fear
it
i
)
quench'd
her
flame
.
And
lo
,
an
humbler
relic
laid
In
jealous
Pisa's
olive
shade
!
See
small
Marino
The
little
republic
of
San
Marino
.
joins
the
theme
,
Tho'
least
,
not
last
in
thy
esteem
:
Strike
,
louder
strike
th'
ennobling
strings
To
those
The
Venetians
.
,
whose
merchant
sons
were
kings
;
To
him
The
Doge
of
Venice
.
,
who
,
deck'd
with
pearly
pride
,
In
Adria
weds
his
green-hair'd
bride
.
Hail
port
of
glory
,
wealth
,
and
pleasure
,
Ne'er
let
me
change
this
Lydian
measure
:
Nor
e'er
her
former
pride
relate
,
To
sad
Liguria's
Genoa
.
bleeding
state
.
Ah
no
!
more
pleas'd
thy
haunts
I
seek
,
On
wild
Helvetia's
Switzerland
.
mountains
bleak
:
(
Where
,
when
the
favour'd
of
thy
choice
,
The
daring
archer
heard
thy
voice
;
Forth
from
his
eyrie
rous'd
in
dread
,
The
ravening
eagle
northward
fled
.
)
Or
dwell
in
willow'd
meads
more
near
.
With
those
The
Dutch
,
among
whom
there
are
very
severe
penalties
for
those
who
are
convicted
of
killing
this
bird
.
They
are
kept
tame
in
almost
all
their
towns
,
and
particularly
at
the
Hague
,
of
the
arms
of
which
they
make
a
part
.
The
common
people
of
Holland
are
said
to
entertain
a
superstitious
sentiment
,
that
if
the
whole
species
of
them
shou'd
become
extinct
,
they
should
lose
their
liberties
.
to
whom
thy
stork
is
dear
:
Those
whom
the
rod
of
Alva
bruis'd
,
Whose
crown
a
British
queen
Queen
Elizabeth
.
refus'd
!
The
magic
works
,
thou
feel'st
the
strains
,
One
holier
name
alone
remains
;
The
perfect
spell
shall
then
avail
,
Hail
nymph
,
ador'd
by
Britain
,
hail
!
ANTISTROPHE
.
Beyond
,
the
measure
vast
of
thought
,
The
works
,
the
wizzard
Time
has
wrought
!
The
Gaul
,
'tis
held
of
antique
story
,
Saw
Britain
link'd
to
his
now
adverse
strand
This
tradition
is
mentioned
by
several
of
our
old
historians
.
Some
naturalists
too
have
endeavoured
to
support
the
probability
of
the
fact
,
by
arguments
drawn
from
the
correspondent
disposition
of
the
two
opposite
coasts
.
I
do
not
remember
that
any
poetical
use
has
been
hitherto
made
of
it
.
,
No
sea
between
,
nor
cliff
sublime
and
hoary
,
He
pass'd
with
unwet
feet
thro'
all
our
land
.
To
the
blown
Baltic
then
,
they
say
,
The
wild
waves
found
another
way
,
Where
Orcas
howls
,
his
wolfish
mountains
rounding
;
Till
all
the
banded
West
at
once
'gan
rise
,
A
wide
wild
storm
even
Nature's
self
confounding
,
Withering
her
giant
sons
with
strange
uncouth
surprise
.
This
pillar'd
earth
so
firm
and
wide
,
By
winds
and
inward
labours
torn
,
In
thunders
dread
was
push'd
aside
,
And
down
the
should'ring
billows
born
.
And
see
,
like
gems
her
laughing
train
,
The
little
isles
on
every
side
,
Mona
There
is
a
tradition
in
the
isle
of
Man
,
that
a
mermaid
becoming
enamoured
of
a
young
man
of
extraordinary
beauty
,
took
an
opportunity
of
meeting
him
one
day
as
he
walked
on
the
shore
,
and
opened
her
passion
to
him
,
but
was
received
with
a
coldness
,
occasioned
by
his
horror
and
surprise
at
her
appearance
.
This
however
was
so
misconstrued
by
the
sea
lady
,
that
in
revenge
for
his
treatment
of
her
,
she
punish'd
the
whole
island
,
by
covering
it
with
a
mist
,
so
that
all
who
attempted
to
carry
on
any
commerce
with
it
,
either
never
arrived
at
it
,
but
wandered
up
and
down
the
sea
,
or
were
on
a
sudden
wrecked
upon
its
cliffs
.
,
once
hid
from
those
who
search
the
main
,
Where
thousand
elsin
shapes
abide
,
And
Wight
who
checks
the
westering
tide
,
For
thee
consenting
heaven
has
each
bestow'd
,
A
fair
attendant
on
her
sovereign
pride
:
To
thee
this
blest
divorce
she
ow'd
,
For
thou
hast
made
her
vales
thy
lov'd
,
thy
last
abode
!
SECOND
EPODE
.
Then
too
,
'tis
said
,
an
hoary
pile
,
'Midst
the
green
navel
of
our
isle
,
Thy
shrine
in
some
religious
wood
,
O
soul-enforcing
goddess
,
stood
!
There
oft
the
painted
native's
feet
Were
wont
thy
form
celestial
meet
:
Tho'
now
with
hopeless
toil
we
trace
Time's
backward
rolls
,
to
find
its
place
;
Whether
the
fiery-tressed
Dane
,
Or
Roman's
self
o'erturn'd
the
fane
,
Or
in
what
heaven-left
age
it
fell
,
'Twere
hard
for
modern
song
to
tell
.
Yet
still
,
if
Truth
those
beams
infuse
,
Which
guide
at
once
,
and
charm
the
Muse
,
Beyond
yon
braided
clouds
that
lie
,
Paving
the
light-embroider'd
sky
:
Amidst
the
Bright
pavillion'd
plains
,
The
beauteous
model
still
remains
.
There
happier
than
in
islands
blest
,
Or
bowers
by
Spring
or
Hebe
drest
,
The
chiefs
who
fill
our
Albion's
story
,
In
warlike
weeds
,
retir'd
in
glory
,
Hear
their
consorted
Druids
sing
Their
triumphs
to
th'
immortal
string
.
How
may
the
poet
now
unfold
,
What
never
tongue
or
numbers
told
?
How
learn
delighted
,
and
amaz'd
,
What
hands
unknown
that
fabric
rais'd
!
Even
now
,
before
his
favour'd
eyes
,
In
Gothic
pride
it
seems
to
rise
!
Yet
Graecia's
graceful
orders
join
,
Majestic
thro'
the
mix'd
design
;
The
secret
builder
knew
to
chuse
,
Each
sphere-found
gem
of
richest
hues
:
Whate'er
heaven's
purer
mould
contains
,
When
nearer
suns
emblaze
its
veins
;
There
on
the
walls
the
patriot's
sight
May
ever
hang
with
fresh
delight
,
And
,
grav'd
with
some
prophetic
rage
,
Read
Albion's
same
thro'
every
age
.
Ye
forms
divine
,
ye
laureat
band
,
That
near
her
inmost
altar
stand
!
Now
sooth
her
,
to
her
blisssul
train
Blythe
Concord's
social
form
to
gain
:
Concord
,
whose
myrtle
wand
can
steep
Even
Anger's
blood-shot
eyes
in
sleep
:
Before
whose
breathing
bosom's
balm
,
Rage
drops
his
steel
,
and
storms
grow
calm
;
Her
let
our
sires
and
matrons
hoar
Welcome
to
Britain's
ravag'd
shore
,
Our
youths
,
enamour'd
of
the
fair
,
Play
with
the
tangles
of
her
hair
,
Till
,
in
one
loud
applauding
found
,
The
nations
shout
to
her
around
,
O
how
supremely
art
thou
blest
,
Thou
,
Lady
,
thou
shalt
rule
the
west
!