For, watchful Guilt is wide awake, Poor Kate possess'd, as evening fell, A Hybla all her own; Ere morn, on Brymbo's summits broke, Her every hive was gone! Yet, Kate, the day shall surely come, The hours are on the wing, When all the honey shall be thine, And his th' eternal sting! * Eminences East and South of Cymmau, and the residence of Thomas Jones, Esq. Fierce from Hyperborean caves, And rushing on resisting shores, That pour, while many a victim dies, Yes, rifler of the fruitful year, Say, wilt thou, while thy wrath is hurl'd, Thy frigid fetters and thy snows : Thou too, as many a tale can tell, Hast seen the constant dog attend, In death itself, his long-lov'd friend; And to that faith, with martyr firmness die! While o'er Hiraethog,* Berwyn,† vast, * A lofty and extensive mountain, in Merionethshire. An upland district of great extent, in Denbighshire. O! let the rage that marks thy reign, And ere her race nocturnal's run, Lights the Morn's intruding sun. Yet annual scourge, even thou hast charms, For while thy steril will prevails, Contagion shuns thy gelid gales, And Health comes swinging both her arms; And Vegetation slowly creeps, To thy maternal lap and sleeps ; But rests to ope her dewy eyes, And shew her tints to milder skies. If rough Deformity was fled, Beauty, in vain, might rear her head; Without thee every season's foil, (Sapping Autumn's mealy spoil) The flowers that deck the brows of Spring, Or shed their sweets from Summer's wing; Th' unvaried year, would laugh in vain. Stern, though thy petrifying face Unform'd in Stanhope's* school of Grace; Yet cold and chilling as thou art, Thou know'st to warm the social heart; Bid even thy features boast a smile; *It is possible that this Ode may be read by some persons who do not know that a series of letters from a Nobleman (Lord Chesterfield) to his son, were published a few years ago, the object of which was, the polish of high life and the "Graces." |