Wife and Family.

I SEE, I feel thy anguish, nor my soul
Has ever known the prevalence of love,
E'er prov'd a father's fondness, as this hour;
Nor, when most ardent to assert my fame,
Was once my heart insensible to thee.
How had it stain'd the honors of my name
To hesitate a moment, and suspend
My country's fate, till shameful life preferr'd,
By my inglorious colleague left no choice,
But what in me were infamy to shun,
Not virtue to accept! Then deem no more
That, of my love regardless, or thy tears,
I haste uncall'd to death. The voice of fate,
The gods, my fame, my country, bid me bleed.
O thou dear mourner! wherefore streams
afresh
[renew'd
That flood of woe? Why heaves with sighs

That tender breast? Leonidas must fall.
Alas! far heavier misery impends
O'er thee and these, if, soften'd by thy tears,
I shamefully refuse to yield that breath,
Which justice, glory, liberty, and Heaven
Claim for my country, for my sons, and thee.
Think on my long unalter'd love. Reflect
On my paternal fondness. Has my heart
E'er known a pause of love, or pious care?
Now shall that care, that tenderness, be prov'd
Most warm and faithful. When thy husband
dies

For Lacedæmon's safety, thou wilt share,
Thou and thy children, the diffusive good.
Should I, thus singled from the rest of men ;
Alone intrusted by th' immortal gods
With pow'r to save a people; should my soul
Desert that sacred cause, thee too I yield
To sorrow and to shame : for thou must weep
With Lacedæmon, must with her sustain
Thy painful portion of oppression's weight.
Thy sons behold, now worthy of their names,
And Spartan birth. Their growing bloom
must pine
[hearts
In shame and bondage, and their youthful
Beat at the sound of liberty no more.
On their own virtue and their father's fame,
When he the Spartan freedom hath confirm'd,
Before the world illustrious shall they rise,
Their country's bulwark, and their mother's
joy.

Here paus'd the patriot. With religious awe Grief heard the voice of virtue. No complaint The solemn silence broke. Tears ceas'd to

flow; Ceas'd for a moment, soon again to stream. For now, in arms before the palace rang'd, His brave companions of the war demand Their leader's presence; then her griefs renew'd,

Too great for utt'rance, intercept her sighs, And freeze each accent on her falt'ring tongue. In speechless anguish, on the hero's breast She sinks. On ev'ry side his children press, Hang on his knees, and kiss his honor'd hand. His soul no longer struggles to confine

cheek, [woe, Down flows the manly sorrow. Great in Amid his children, who enclose him round, He stands indulging tenderness and love In graceful tears, when thus, with lifted eyes, Address'd to Heaven: Thou ever-living Pow'r, Look down propitious, Sire of gods and men! And to this faithful woman, whose desert May claim thy favor, grant the hours of peace. And thou, my great forefather, son of Jove, O Hercules, neglect not these thy race! But, since that spirit I from thee derive Now bears me from them to resistless fate, Do thou support their virtue! Be they taught, Like thee, with glorious labor life to grace, And from their father let them learn to die!

98. Characters of Teribazus and Ariana. AMID the van of Persia was a youth Nam'd Teribazus, not for golden stores, Not for wide pastures travers'd o'er with herds, With bleating thousands, or with bounding steeds;

Nor yet for pow'r, nor splendid honors, fam'd.
Rich was his mind in ev'ry art divine,
And through the paths of science had he
The votary of wisdom. In the years [walk'd
When tender down invests the ruddy cheek,
He with the Magi turn'd the hallow'd page
Of Zoroaster; then his tow'ring soul
High on the plumes of contemplation soar'd,
And from the lofty Babylonian fane [sphere,
With learn'd Chaldeans trac'd the mystic
There number'd o'er the vivid fires that gleam
Upon the dusky bosom of the night.
Nor on the sands of Ganges were unheard
The Indian sages from sequester'd bow'rs,
While, as attention wonder'd, they disclos'd
The pow'rs of nature; whether in the woods,
The fruitful glebe or flow'r, or healing plant,
The limpid waters, or the ambient air,
Or in the purer element of fire.
The fertile plains where great Sesostris reign'd,
Mysterious Egypt, next the youth survey'd,
From Elephantis, where impetuous Nile
Precipitates his waters to the sea,
Which far below receives the sevenfold stream.
Thence o'er th' Ionic coast he stray'd: nor
pass'd

Miletus by, which once enraptur'd heard
The tongue of Thales; nor Priene's walls,
Where wisdom dwelt with Bias; nor the seat
Of Pittacus, along the Lesbian shore.
Here too melodious numbers charm'd his ears,
Which flow'd from Orpheus, and Musæus old,
And thee, O father of immortal verse,
Mæonides, whose strains through every age
Time with his own eternal lips shall sing.
Back to his native Susa then he turn'd
His wand'ring steps. His merit soon was dear
To Hyperanthes, generous and good :
And Ariana, from Darius sprung
With Hyperanthes, of th' imperial race
Which rul'd th' extent of Asia, in disdain

shed,

aim

Death, sullen at the sight, stalks slow away.

§ 113. Ode to Pity. COLLINS.
O THOU, the friend of man assign'd,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic wo;
When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,
His wild, unsated foe!

By Pella's bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,

Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

know,

fire.

Now a chill damp the charmer's lustre dims:
Sad o'er her eyes the livid languor swims!
Her eyes, that, with a glance, could joy inspire,
Like setting stars, scarce shoot a glimmering
[press'd,
Here stands her consort, sore with anguish
Grief in his eye, and terror in his breast.
The Paphian Graces, smit with anxious care,
In silent sorrow weep the waning fair.
Eight suns, successive, roll their fire away,
And eight slow nights see their deep shades
decay.
While these revolve, though mute each Muse
[appears,
Each speaking eye drops eloquence in tears.
On the ninth noon great Phoebus listening
bends,

On the ninth noon each voice in prayer ascends-

Great God of light, of song, and physic's art, Restore the languid fair, new soul impart ! Her beauty, wit, and virtue, claim thy care, And thine own bounty's almost rivall'd there. Each paus'd: the god assents. Would death

advance ?

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head:

To him thy cell was shown:
With youth's soft notes, unspoil'd by art,
And while he sung the female heart,
The turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come: by fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride design :
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat,

In all who view the shrine.
There Picture's toil shall well relate
How chance or hard involving fate,

O'er mortal bliss prevail :
The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And, sighing, prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.
In dreams of passion melt away,
There let me oft, retir'd by day,

There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Allow'd with thee to dwell:
Till, virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!
§ 114. Ode.

Written in the year 1746.
COLLINS

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,

* A river in Sussex.