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The fhallow fop, in antic veft,
Tir'd of the beaten road,
Proud to be fingularly dreft, Changes, with ev'ry changing moon, the mode. Say, shall not then the heaven-born Mufes too Variety purfue?
Shall not applauding critics hail the vogue? Whether the Muse the ftyle of Cambria's fons,
Or the rude gabble of the Huns,
Or the broader dialect
Of Caledonia fhe affect,
Or take, Hibernia, thy fill ranker brogue?
On this terrestrial ball,
The tyrant Fashion governs all.
The Ideot Moria, on the banks of Seine,
Long the paid him with disdain,
And long his pangs in filence he conceal'd:
On thy bleft calends, April, he reveal'd.
Ever changing, ever ranging,
Fashion, Goddess ever young.
Perch'd on the dubious height, fhe loves to ride
Upon a weather-cock, aftride.
Each blaft that blows, around she goes,
While nodding o'er her creft,
Emblem of her magic pow'r,
The light cameleon ftands confeft,
Changing its hues a thousand times an hour;
And in a veft is fhe array'd,
Of many a dancing moon-beam made,
Nor zoneless is her waist :
But fair and beautiful, I ween,
As the ceftos-cinctur'd Queen,
Is with the rainbow's fhadowy girdle brac'd.
She bids pursue the fav'rite road
Which th' illuftrious Pindar bore,
High blood and youth his lufty veins infpire,
Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name?
The bloody-fhoulder'd Arab was his fire ;
* His Whitenofe. He on fam'd Doncaftria's plains Refign'd his fated breath:
In vain for life the struggling courfer strains.
Ah who can run the race with Death?
The tyrant's speed, or man or fteed,
He leads the chace, he wins the race,
The author is either mistaken in this place, or has elfe indulged himfelf in a very unwarrantable poetical li cence. Whitenofe was not the fire, but the fon, of the Godolphin Arabian. See my Calendar. HEBER.
Third from Whitenose springs
Pegafus with eagle wings:
Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork,
With many a bound he beats the ground,
While all the Turf with acclamation rings.
He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York:
He too Newmarket won.
There Granta's Son
Seiz'd on the steed
And thence him led (fo Fate decreed)
To where old Cam, renown'd in Poet's fong,
With his dark and inky waves
Either bank in filence laves,
Winding flow his fluggish ftreams along.