Ye nymphs! that haunt the streams and shady

groves,

Forget awhile to mourn your absent loves;
In song and sportive dance your joy proclaim,
In yielding blushes own your rising flame:
Be kind, ye nymphs! nor let him sigh in vain.

Each land remote your curious eye has view'd,
That Grecian arts or Roman arms subdued;
Search'd every region, every distant soil,
With pleasing labour and instructive toil:
Say then, accomplish'd bard! what god inclined
To these our humble plains your generous mind?
Nor would you deign in Latian fields to dwell,
Which none know better, or describe so well.
In vain ambrosial fruits invite your stay,
In vain the myrtle groves obstruct your way,
And ductile streams that round the borders stray.
Your wiser choice prefers this spot of earth,
Distinguish'd by the' immortal Shakspeare's birth;
Where through the vales the fair Avona glides,
And nourishes the glebe with fattening tides:
Flora's rich gifts deck all the verdant soil,
And plenty crowns the happy farmer's toil.
Here, on the painted borders of the flood,
The babe was born, his bed with roses strow'd:
Here, in an ancient, venerable dome,
Oppress'd with grief, we view the poet's tomb.
Angels, unseen, watch o'er his hallow'd urn,
And in soft elegies complaining mourn;
While the bless'd saint, in loftier strains, above
Reveals the wonders of eternal love.
The heavens, delighted in his tuneful lays,
With silent joy attend their Maker's praise.
In heaven he sings; on earth your Muse supplies
The' important loss, and heals our weeping eyes:

Correctly great, she melts each flinty heart
With equal genius, but superior art.
Hail, happy pair! ordain'd by turns to bless,
And save a sinking nation in distress;
By great examples to reform the crowd,
Awake their zeal, and warm their frozen blood.
When Brutus strikes for liberty and laws,
Nor spares a father in his country's cause,
Justice severe applauds the cruel deed,
A tyrant suffers, and the world is freed;
But when we see the godlike Cato bleed,
The nation weeps; and from thy fate, O Rome!
Learns to prevent her own impending doom.
Where is the wretch a worthless life can prize,
When senates are no more, and Cato dies?
Indulgent sorrow and a pleasing pain

Heaves in each breast, and beats in every vein,
The' expiring patriot animates the crowd,
Bold they demand their ancient rights aloud,
The dear-bought purchase of their father's blood,
Fair Liberty her head majestic rears,

Ten thousand blessings in her bosom bears;
Serene she smiles, revealing all her charms,
And calls her free-born youth to glorious arms.
Faction's repell'd, and grumbling leaves her prey;
Forlorn she sits, and dreads the fatal day
When eastern gales shall sweep her hopes away.
Such ardent zeal your Muse alone could raise,
Alone reward it with immortal praise.
Ages to come shall celebrate your fame,
And rescued Britain bless the poet's name.
So when the dreaded powers of Sparta fail'd,
Tyrtæus and Athenian wit prevail'd.
Too weak the laws by wise Lycurgus made,
And rules severe, without the Muses' aid:

He touch'd the trembling strings, the poet's song
Revived the faint, and made the feeble strong;
Recall'd the living to the dusty plain,
And to a better life restored the slain.
The victor-host amazed, with horror view'd
The' assembling troops, and all the war renew'd;
To more than mortal courage quit the field,
And to their foes the' unfinish'd trophies yield.

TO DR. MACKENZIE.

O THOU, whose penetrating mind,
Whose heart, benevolent and kind,
Is ever present in distress,

Glad to preserve, and proud to bless ;
Oh! leave not Arden's faithful grove,
On Caledonian hills to rove;
But hear our fond united prayer,
Nor force a country to despair.

Let homicides in Warwick-lane,
With hecatombs of victims slain,
Butcher for knighthood and for gain;
While thou pursuest a nobler aim,
Declining interest for fame.
Where'er thy Maker's image dwells,
In gilded roofs or smoky cells,
The same thy zeal; o'erjoy'd to save
Thy fellow-creature from the grave;
For well thy soul can understand

The
poor
man's call is God's command;
No frail, no transient good, his fee,
But heaven and bless'd eternity!

Nor are thy labours here in vain,
The pleasure overpays the pain.
True happiness (if understood)
Consists alone in doing good;
Speak, all ye wise! can God bestow,
Or man a greater pleasure know?
See, where the grateful father bows!
His tears confess how much he owes :
His son, the darling of his heart,
Restored by your prevailing art;
His house, his name, redeem'd by you,
His ancient honours bloom anew.
But, oh! what idioms can express
The vast transcendent happiness
The faithful husband feels, his wife,
His better half, recall'd to life?
See with what rapture! see him view
The shatter'd frame rebuilt by you!
See health rekindling in her eyes!
See baffled Death give up his prize!
Tell me, my friend, canst thou forbear
In this gay scene to claim a share?
Does not thy blood more swiftly flow?
Thy heart with secret transports glow?
Health, life, by Heaven's indulgence sent,
And thou the glorious instrument!

Safe in thy art, no ills we fear,
Thy hand shall plant Elysium here:
Pale Sickness shall thy triumphs own,
And ruddy Health exalt her throne.
The fair, renew'd in all her charms,
Shall fly to thy protecting arms,
With gracious smiles repay thy care,
And leave her lovers in despair.

While multitudés applaud and bless
Their great asylum in distress,
My humble Muse, among the crowd,
Her joyful pæan sings aloud.
Could I but with Mæonian flight
Sublimely soar through fields of light,
Above the stars thy name should shine,
Nor great Machaon's rival thine!
But father Phoebus, who has done
So much for thee, his favourite son,
His other gifts on me bestows

With partial hands, nor hears my vows:
Oh! let a grateful heart supply

What the penurious powers deny!

TO A LADY,

WHO MADE ME A PRESENT OF A SILVER PEN.

FAIR-ONE! accept the thanks I owe;

'Tis all a grateful heart can do.
If e'er my soul the Muse inspire
With raptures and poetic fire,
Your kind munificence I'll praise,
To you a thousand altars raise;
Jove shall descend in golden rain,
Or die a swan, but sing in vain.
Phoebus, the witty and the gay,
Shall quit the chariot of the day,
To bask in your superior ray.
Your charms shall every god subdue,
And every goddess envy you.
Add this but to your bounty's store,
This one great boon, I ask no more;