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And, hark! with animating note,
-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!
Ne'er were our barks more amply fraught;
His bleeding country's countless millions drains,
Unpeopled cities, and unlabour'd plains ;
While, moral truth and Faich's celestial ray,
This table and mirror within,
Secure from collision and dust,
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,
My Iliad and Odyssey too.
Which here people call a beaufette,
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.
The stream of pure and genuine love
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,
Soon, or more late, th' irremeable way:
While guilt grows old in infamy and crime,
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.