S T R O P H E. <br /> <br />O THOU, who sit'st a smiling Bride <br /> By Valour's arm'd and awful Side, <br />Gentlest of Sky-born Forms, and best ador'd: <br /> Who oft with Songs, divine to hear, <br /> Win'st from his fatal Grasp the Spear, <br />And hid'st in Wreaths of Flow'rs his bloodless Sword! <br /> Thou who, amidst the deathful Field, <br /> By Godlike Chiefs alone beheld, <br />Oft with thy Bosom bare art found, <br />Pleading for him the Youth who sinks to Ground: <br /> See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded Hands, <br /> Before thy Shrine my Country's Genius stands, <br />And decks thy Altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a Wound! <br /> <br />A N T I S T R O P H E. <br /> <br /> When he whom ev'n our Joys provoke, <br /> The Fiend of Nature join'd his Yoke, <br />And rush'd in Wrath to make our Isle his Prey, <br /> Thy Form, from out thy sweet Abode, <br /> O'ertook Him on his blasted Road, <br />And stop'd his Wheels, and look'd his Rage away. <br /> I see recoil his sable Steeds, <br /> That bore Him swift to Salvage Deeds, <br />Thy tender melting Eyes they own; <br />O Maid, for all thy Love to Britain shown, <br /> Where Justice bars her Iron Tow'r, <br /> To Thee we build a roseate Bow'r, <br />Thou, Thou shalt rule our Queen, and share our Monarch's Throne!<br /><br />William Taylor Collins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-m-e-r-c-y/
