William Collins

Ode to a Lady, on the Death of Colonel Ross, in the Action of Fontenoy

  Written in May, 1745.

  While, lost to all his former mirth,
  Britannia's genius bends to earth,
      And mourns the fatal day:
  While stain'd with blood he strives to tear
  Unseemly from his sea-green hair
      The wreaths of cheerful May:

  The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
  And fond Remembrance loves to raise,
      Your faithful hours attend;
  Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
  Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
      And points the bleeding friend.

  By rapid Scheld's descending wave
  His country's vows shall bless the grave,
      Where'er the youth is laid:
  That sacred spot the village hind
  With every sweetest turf shall bind,
      And Peace protect the shade.

  Blest youth, regardful of thy doom,
  Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,
      With shadowy trophies crown'd;
  Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall rove
  To sigh thy name through every grove,
      And call his heroes round.

  The warlike dead of every age,
  Who fill the fair recording page,
      Shall leave their sainted rest;
  And, half reclining on his spear,
  Each wondering chief by turns appear,
      To hail the blooming guest:

  Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
  Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
      And gaze with fix'd delight;
  Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
  Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
      And wish the avenging fight.

  But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,
  Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
      Impatient Freedom lies!
  Her matted tresses madly spread,
  To every sod, which wraps the dead,
      She turns her joyless eyes.

  Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground
  Till notes of triumph bursting round
      Proclaim her reign restored:
  Till William seek the sad retreat,
  And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
      Present the sated sword.

  If, weak to soothe so soft a heart,
  These pictured glories nought impart,
      To dry thy constant tear:
  If, yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
  Exposed and pale thou see'st him lie,
      Wild War insulting near:

  Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
  The Muse shall still, with social grief,
      Her gentlest promise keep;
  Even humbled Harting's cottaged vale
  Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
      And bid her shepherds weep.