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And, hark with animating note,
Aloud her strains exulting float,
While, pointing to th’ inveterate host
Who threat destruction to this envied coast:
“Go forth, my sons —As nobler rights ye claim,
“Than ever fann'd the Grecian patriot's flame;
“So let your breasts a fiercer ardour feel, . -

Led by your Patriot King, to guard your country's weal.”

III.

IHer voice is heard—from wood, from vale, from down,
The thatch-roof’d village, and the busy town,
Eager th’ indignant country swarms,
And pours a people, clad in arms,
Num’rous as those which Xerxes led
To crush devoted Freedom’s head,
Firm as the band for Freedom’s cause who stood, *
And stain’d Thermopylae with Spartan blood:
Hear o'er their heads the exulting goddess sing—
These are my favourite song, and inine their warrior King!”

IV.
Thro' Albion's plains while wide and far
Swells the tumultuous din of war; -
While, from the loom, the forge, the flail,
From Labour's plough, from Commerce’ sail,
All ranks to martial impulse yield, *
And grasp the spear, and brave the field;
JDo weeds our plains uncultur'd hide 2
I}oes drooping Commerce quit the tide 2
Do languid Art and Industry -
Their useful cares no longer ply?– 2
Never did Agriculture's toil -
With richer harvests clothe the soil :
Ne'er were our barks more amply fraught;

Ne'er were with happier skill our ores, our fleeces, wrought.

V.

While the proud foe, to swell Invasion’s host,
His bleeding country’s countless millions drains,
And G.All A mourns, thro’ her embattl’d coast,
Unpeopled cities, and unlabour’d plains;
To guard and to avenge this favour’d land,
Tho' gleams the sword in ev'ry Briton's hand,
Still o'er our fields waves Concord's silken wing,
Still the Arts flourish, and the Muses sing ; -
While, moral truth and Faith’s celestial ray,

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To

To Mary.
[By Mr. Cowper, from Mr. Hayley's Life of him.]

HE twentieth year is well nigh past,
T Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah would that this might be the last!
- My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow—

‘Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store!

For my sake restless heretofore;

Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,

Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Maryl -

But well thou play’d'st the huswife's part;

And all thy threads with magic art,

Have wound themselves about this heart, * - My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright!
Are still more lovely in my sight
- Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see :
The sun would rise in vain for me,

- * My Mary

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,
My Mary :
- Such

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The stream of pure and genuine love
Derives its current from above ;
And earth a second Eden shows,
Where'er the healing water flows:
But ah, if from the dykes and drains
Of sensual nature's fev’rish veins,
Lust like a lawless headstrong flood,
Impregnated with ooze and mud,
Descending fast on ev'ry side
Once mingles with the sacred tide,
Farewell the soul-enliv'ning scene :
The banks that wore a smiling green,
With rank defilement overspread,
Bewail their flow'ry beauties dead.
The stream polluted, dark, and dull,
Diffused into a Stygian pool,
Through life's last melancholy years
Is fed with ever flowing tears:
Complaints supply the zephyr's part,
And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

• Elecy on the late Mr. Wakefield. [Translated by Mr. Goon, from the LAT is of Dr. Geodes.]

HEE too, the boast of every critic tongue,

Has fate severe snatched headlong from our eyes; Snatched from a weeping wife, an offspring young, Friends dearly loved, and all the good and wise.

How hard the doom!—In dungeons long enthralled,
Scarce flies thy joyous foot their dreary bourn,

When lo to Death’s dark mansions art thou called,
Whence man returns not—nor can e'er return.

True—good and bad, wise, simple, rich and poor,
Whoe'er has drank th’ ethereal flood of day,

Kings, courtiers, beggars, must alike explore,
Soon, or more late, th’ irremeable way:

But who laments not that, while fools survive,
While guilt grows old in infamy and crime,

Worth, wisdom, piety, that chief should thrive,
Fall like the rose-bud weltering in its prime :

But though too short the date to thee assigned,
Not short the genuine fame just heaven imparts:
Yes! thou hast lived—and long shall live, behind,
Thy splendid image, WAKE Field ! in our hearts.
Meanwhile

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