| Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900. |
| |
| William Collins. 1721–1759 |
| |
| 457. 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, | 5 |
| Thy babe and Pleasure's, nursed 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, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| By her whose love-lorn woe, | |
| In evening musings slow, | |
| Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear: | |
| |
| By old Cephisus deep, | |
| Who spread his wavy sweep | 20 |
| In warbled wand'rings round thy green retreat; | |
| On whose enamell'd side, | |
| When holy Freedom died, | |
| No equal haunt allured thy future feet! | |
| |
| O sister meek of Truth, | 25 |
| To my admiring youth | |
| Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! | |
| The flow'rs that sweetest breathe, | |
| Though beauty cull'd the wreath, | |
| Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. | 30 |
| |
| While Rome could none esteem, | |
| But virtue's patriot theme, | |
| You loved her hills, and led her laureate band; | |
| But stay'd to sing alone | |
| To one distinguish'd throne, | 35 |
| And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. | |
| |
| No more, in hall or bow'r, | |
| The passions own thy pow'r. | |
| Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean; | |
| For thou hast left her shrine, | 40 |
| Nor olive more, nor vine, | |
| Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. | |
| |
| Though taste, though genius bless | |
| To some divine excess, | |
| Faint 's the cold work till thou inspire the whole; | 45 |
| What each, what all supply, | |
| May court, may charm our eye, | |
| Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul! | |
| |
| Of these let others ask, | |
| To aid some mighty task, | 50 |
| I only seek to find thy temperate vale; | |
| Where oft my reed might sound | |
| To maids and shepherds round, | |
| And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale. | |
|
|
