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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. Her 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's Thermopyla with Spartan blood :

Hear o'er their heads the exulting goddess sing“ These are my favourite song, and ini ne 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 Aail,
From Labour's plough, from Commerce' sail,
All.ranks to martial impulse yield,
And grasp the spear, and brave the field;
Do weeds our plains uncultur?d hide ?
Does drooping Commerce quit the tide ?
Do languid Art and Industry
Their useful cares no longer ply?-
Never did Agriculture's toil
With richer harvests ciothe the soil ;

Ne'er were our barks more amply fraught;
Ne'er were wilh 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 Gallia 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 ihe Muses sing ;

While, moral truth and Faich's celestial ray,
Aloin, illuine, and bless, 2 GEORGE's prosp'rous sway.

TO MARY

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

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This table and mirror within,

Secure from collision and dust,
At which I oft shave cheek and chin,

And periwig nicely adjust.

This moveable structure of shelves,

For its beauty admired and its use, And charged with octavos and twelves

The gayest I had to produce, Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,

My Poems enchanted I view,
And hope, in due time, to behold

My Iliad and Odyssey too.
This China, that decks the alcove,

Which here people call a beaufette,
But what the gods call it above,

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : These curtains, that keep the room warm,

Or cool, as the season demands ; Those stoves, that for pattern and form,

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands.

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The stream of pure and genuine love
Derives its current from above ;
And earth a seeond 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 food,
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.

T

Elegy on the LATE MR. WAKEFIELD. [Translated by Mr. Good, from the Latin of Dr. GEDDE s.] THEE 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 food 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 weitering 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, WAKEFIELD! in our hearts.

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