William Collins – Ode to Evening
I have divided the poem into sections for ease of comprehension. In each
section I have reproduced the poem with modernised spellings. Following
that is a version with some words replaced and the word order changed to try
to make the sense more explicit to a modern ear and eye. A short note may
follow that.
1
If anything of oaten stop, or pastoral song, may hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy
modest ear, like thy own solemn springs, thy springs and dying gales, O nymph
reserved, while now the bright-haired sun sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy
skirts, with brede ethereal woven, overhang his wavy bed:
If there is any kind of pastoral song which may hope, pure Evening, to soothe your
humble ear, (like your own solemn springs, your springs and dying gales,) O modest
nymph,
(while now the bright-haired sun sits in the far west as if in a tent of cloudy skirts,
woven with delicate braids that overhang its wavy bed)
The sense here seems to be that the poet asks Evening if there is any song
to be sung to here which is acceptable, then (many lines later) teach him to
sing those melodies (see below).
2
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, with short shrill shriek, flits by on
leathern wing, or where the beetle winds his small but sullen horn, as oft he rises
amidst the twilight path, against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.
Now the air is hushed, except where the weak-eyed bat, with short shrill shriek, flits
by on its leathery wing,
or where the beetle winds his small but sullen horn, as often he rises amid the twilight
path, against the pilgrim (?) carried in heedless hum.
It must be really quiet because the only sounds are those of the bat’s squeak
or the beetle’s tiny sounds.
3
Now teach me, maid composed, to breathe some softened strain, whose numbers
stealing through thy darkening vale may not unseemly with its stillness suit, as musing
slow, I hail thy genial loved return!
Now teach me, unruffled maid, to softly sing those melodies which may move quietly
through your darkening valley and not upset its stillness. Meditating quietly, I hail
your friendly and loved return!
Not an easy section to disentangle! I think this is the gist of it.
4
For when thy folding-star arising shows his pale circlet, at his warning lamp the
fragrant hours, and elves who slept in flowers the day, and many a nymph who
wreathes her brows with sedge, and sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, the
pensive pleasures sweet, prepare thy shadowy car.
For when your folding-star (the evening star?) rises and shows its pale crown, at its
warning lamp the fragrant hours,
and elves (who slept in flowers the day),
and many a nymph (who wreathes her brows with grasses, and sheds the freshening
dew, and, lovelier still, the sweet thoughtful pleasures),
prepare your shadowy carriage.
A whimsical picture out of a child’s story book? The fairies and elves come
out at the close of day and prepare Evening’s shadowy carriage. Quite where
do the thoughtful and sweet, thoughtful pleasures fit in?
5
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake cheers the lone heath, or some
time-hallowed pile, or upland fallows grey reflect its last cool gleam. but when chill
blustering winds, or driving rain, forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut that from the
mountain's side views wilds, and swelling floods, and hamlets brown, and dimdiscovered spires, and hears their simple bell, and marks over all thy dewy fingers
draw the gradual dusky veil.
Then lead, calm devotee, to where some flat, still lake cheers the lone heath,
or some time-hallowed lofty building,
or grey upland fallow land
reflects its (the evening star’s?) last cool gleam.
But when chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, prevent my willing feet, I would like
to inhabit the hut from which there is a view of the mountain's side, and swelling
streams, and brown hamlets, and faint spires, (and from where one can hear their
simple bells), and your dewy fingers draw a gradual dusky veil over all these.
6
While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, and bathe thy breathing tresses,
meekest eve; while summer loves to sport beneath thy lingering light; while sallow
autumn fills thy lap with leaves; or winter, yelling through the troublous air, affrights
thy shrinking train, and rudely rends thy robes; so long, sure-found beneath the
sylvan shed, shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipped health, thy gentlest influence
own, and hymn thy favourite name!
While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, and bathe thy breathing tresses,
meekest eve; while summer loves to sport beneath thy lingering light; while sallow
autumn fills thy lap with leaves; or winter, yelling through the troublous air, affrights
thy shrinking train, and rudely rends thy robes; so long, sure-found beneath the sylvan
shed, shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipped health, thy gentlest influence own,
and hymn thy favourite name!
© Teachit 2010