1: _Odōrous._ Milton, in the Par. Lost, gives the lengthened and harmonious accent to that word, rather than the short, and _common_ one, ōdorous:
----“the bright consummate flower Spirit odōrous breathes.”
Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene, And wrapt the hush'd horizon.--All around, In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound, Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence serene Slumbers;--but creeps, with pale and starting mien, Benighted SUPERSTITION.--Fancy-found, The late self-slaughter'd Man, in earth yet green And festering, burst from his incumbent mound, Roams!--and the Slave of Terror thinks he hears A mutter'd groan!--sees the sunk eye, that glares As shoots the Meteor.--But no more forlorn He strays;--the Spectre sinks into his tomb! For _now_ the jocund Herald of the Morn Claps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom[1].
1: “It faded at the crowing of the cock.” HAMLET.
WRITTEN IN THE SPRING 1785 ON THE DEATH OF THE POET LAUREAT.
The knell of WHITEHEAD tolls!--his cares are past, The hapless tribute of his purchas'd lays, His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!-- If not sublime his strains, Fame justly plac'd Their power above their work.--Now, with wide gaze Of much indignant wonder, she surveys To the life-labouring oar assiduous haste A glowing Bard, by every Muse embrac'd.-- O, WARTON! chosen Priest of Phœbus' choir! Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn the THRONE, Whether its edicts just applause inspire, Or PATRIOT VIRTUE view them with a frown? What needs for _this_ the golden-stringed Lyre, The snowy Tunic, and the Sun-bright Zone[1]!
FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION IN SIR WILLIAM JONES' ESSAY ON THE POETRY OF THE EASTERN NATIONS.
Guard thou, my Son, the Helpless and the Poor, Nor in the chains of thine own indolence Slumber enervate, while the joys of sense Engross thee; and thou say'st, “I ask no more.”-- _Wise_ Men the Shepherd's slumber will deplore When the rapacious Wolf has leapt the fence, And ranges thro' the fold.--My Son, dispense Those laws, that justice to the Wrong'd restore.-- The Common-Weal shou'd be the first pursuit Of the crown'd Warrior, for the royal brows The People first enwreath'd.--They are the Root, The King the Tree. Aloft he spreads his boughs Glorious; but learn, impetuous Youth, at length, Trees from the Root alone derive their strength.