William Collins (Уильям Коллинз)

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 loved of old to view?
  What new Alcæus, 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,
  The admiring world thy hand revered;
  Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around,
  Some remnants of her strength were found;
  They saw, by what escaped the storm,
  How wondrous 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 preserved a part,
  Till they, whom Science loved to name,
  (O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame.
  And lo, an humbler relic laid
  In jealous Pisa's olive shade!
  See small Marino joins the theme,
  Though least, not last in thy esteem:
  Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings
  To those, whose merchant sons were kings;
  To him, 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 bleeding state.
  Ah no! more pleased thy haunts I seek,
  On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
  (Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
  The daring archer heard thy voice;
  Forth from his eyrie roused in dread,
  The ravening eagle northward fled:)
  Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
  With those to whom thy stork is dear:
  Those whom the rod of Alva bruised,
  Whose crown a British queen refused!
  The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
  One holier name alone remains;
  The perfect spell shall then avail,
  Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail!

          ANTISTROPHE.

  Beyond the measure vast of thought,
  The works the wizard time has wrought!
    The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
  Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand,
    No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
  He pass'd with unwet feet through 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 shouldering billows borne.
  And see, like gems, her laughing train, 
    The little isles on every side,
  Mona, once hid from those who search the main,
    Where thousand elfin 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 owed,
  For thou hast made her vales thy loved, 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:
  Though now with hopeless toil we trace
  Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
  Whether the fiery-tresséd 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 pavilion'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, retired in glory,
  Hear their consorted Druids sing
  Their triumphs to the immortal string.
    How may the poet now unfold
  What never tongue or numbers told?
  How learn delighted, and amazed,
  What hands unknown that fabric raised?
  Even now before his favour'd eyes,
  In gothic pride, it seems to rise!
  Yet Græcia's graceful orders join,
  Majestic through the mix'd design: 
  The secret builder knew to choose
  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, graved with some prophetic rage,
  Read Albion's fame through every age.
    Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,
  That near her inmost altar stand!
  Now soothe her to her blissful train
  Blithe Concord's social form to gain;
  Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
  Even Anger's bloodshot 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 Briton's ravaged shore;
  Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
  Play with the tangles of her hair,
  Till, in one loud applauding sound,
  The nations shout to her around,
  O how supremely art thou blest,
  Thou, lady--thou shalt rule the west!

1. Abra; or, The Georgian Sultana
2. Selim; or, The Shepherd's Moral
3. Ode to Simplicity
4. The Manners
5. Ode on the Grave of Thomson

Henry Pye (Генри Пай) Ode to Liberty ("O liberty! celestial maid!")

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