As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedlefs hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe fome foften'd ftrain,
Whofe numbers, ftealing through thy darkening vale, May not unfeemly with its ftillness fuit,
As, mufing flow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return !
For when thy folding star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who flept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with fedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,
The penfive pleasures sweet
Prepare thy fhadowy car.
Then let me rove fome wild and heathy scene,
Or find fome ruin 'midft its dreary dells,
Whofe walls more aweful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill bluftering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's fide,
Views wilds, and fwelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring fhall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to fport
Beneath thy lingering light:
While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy fhrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes :
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentleft influence own,
And love thy favourite name!
Thou, who bad'st thy turtles bear
Swift from his grafp thy golden hair,
And fought'ft thy native skies:
When war, by vultures drawn from fai,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bade his storms arife!
Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,
Our youth fhall fix fome festive day,
His fullen fhrines to burn:
But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres,
What founds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bleft return!
O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind!
O rife, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train :
The British lion, Goddess sweet,
Lies ftretch'd on earth to kifs thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.
Let others court thy tranfient fmile,
But come to grace thy weftern ifle,
By warlike Honour led!
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!
AREWELL, for clearer ken defign'd;
The dim-difcover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My filent fearch in vain requir'd!
No more my fail that deep explores,
No more I fearch those magic shores,
What regions part the world of foul,
Or whence thy ftreams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round fuch fairy field,
Some power impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizard paffions fly,
By which the giant follies die!
Farewell the porch, whose roof is feen, Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tissued veft,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,
Comes like a bride, fo trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's fhade!
Youth of the quick uncheated fight,
Thy walks, Obfervance, more invite !
O thou, who lov'ft that ampler range,
Where life's wide profpects round thee change,
And, with her mingled fons ally'd,
Throw'ft the prattling page afide:
To me in converfe fweet impart,
To read in man the native heart,
To learn, where Science fure is found,
From Nature as the lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the leffons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Haft bleft this focial fcience moft.
Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain fhe finds the charmful task,
In pageant quaint, in motley mask,
Behold, before her mufing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rife;
While, ever varying as they pass,
To fome Contempt applies her glafs:
With these the white-rob'd maid combine,
And those the laughing fatyrs join!
But who is he whom now fhe views,
In robe of wild contending hues ?
Thou by the paffions nurs'd; I greet
The comic fock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whofe name is known
To Britain's favour'd ifle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy fide!
By old Miletus* who fo long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong:
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern fhades:
By him †, whofe knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's luft of fame;
Whofe tales ev'n now, with echoes sweet,
Caftilia's Moorish hills repeat:
Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's fhore,
Alluding to the Milesian Tales, fome of the earlieft romances.
Monfieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745
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