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Infulted by a peevish, noify wife,

Or at the bar foredoom'd to lofe his life;
What moving words flow from his artless tongue,
Sublime with ease, with condescension strong!
Yet fcorn'd to flatter vice, or virtue blame;
Nor chang'd to pleafe, but pleas'd because the fame;
The fame by friends carefs'd, by foes withstood,
Still unaffected, cheerful, mild, and good.
Behold one pagan, drawn in colours faint,
Outshine ten thousand monks, tho' each a faint!
Here let us fix our foot, hence take our view,
And learn to try false merit by the true.
We fee, when reason ftagnates in the brain,
The dregs of fancy cloud its pureft vein ;
But circulation betwixt mind and mind
Extends its courfe, and renders it refin'd.
When warm with youth we tread the flow'ry way,
All nature charms, and ev'ry scene looks gay;
Each object gratifies each sense in turn,

Whilft now for rattles, now for nymphs we burn ;
Enslav'd by friendship's or by love's soft smile,
We ne'er fufpect, because we mean no guile :
Till, flufh'd with hope from views of paft fuccefs,
We lay on fome main trifle all our stress;
When lo! the mistress or the friend betrays,
And the whole fancied cheat of life displays :
Stun'd with an ill that from ourselves arofe;
For instinct rul'd, when reason should have chose;

We

We fly for comfort to fome lonely scene,
Victims henceforth of dirt, and drink, and spleen.
But let no obftacles that cross our views,
Pervert our talents from their destin'd use;
For, as upon life's hill we upwards prefs,
Our views will be obftructed lefs and lefs.
Be all false delicacy far away,

Left it from nature lead us quite astray;
And for th' imagin'd vice of human race,
Deftroy our virtue, or our parts debase;
Since God with reason joins to make us own,
That 'tis not good for man to be alone.

ODE, to a LADY.

On the Death of Col. CHARLES Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written May 1745.

By Mr. W. COLLINS.

I.

HILE, loft to all his former

mirth,

W BRITANNIA'S genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day;

While, ftain'd with blood, he strives to tear

Unfeemly from his fea-green hair

The wreaths of cheerful May;

VOL. I.

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II.

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raife,
Your faithful hours attend;

Still fancy, to herself unkind,

Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

III.

By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall blefs the grave,
Where-e'er the youth is laid :

That facred spot the village hind
With ev'ry sweetest turf fhall bind,

And peace protect the fhade.

IV.

O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,

Aerial forms fhall fit at eve

And bend the pensive head!

And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,

Imperial Honour's aweful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

V.

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their fainted reft:

And, half-reclining on his spear,

Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear,

To hail the blooming gueft.

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VI.

Old EDWARD's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from CRESSY's laurell'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight;

Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy fteel,

And with th' avenging fight.

VII.

If, weak to footh so soft an heart,

Thefe pictur'd glories nought impart

To dry thy constant tear;

If yet in forrow's diftant eye,

Expos'd and pale thou feeft him lie,

Wild war infulting near.

VIII.

Where-e'er from time thou court'st relief,

The Muse shall still with focial grief
Her gentle promise keep :
Ev'n humble HARTING's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the fad repeated tale,

And bid her fhepherds weep.

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H

O DE,

Written in the fame Year.

By the Same.

OW fleep the brave, who fink to rest,

By all their country's wishes bleft!
When Spring with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there fhall dress a sweeter sod,
Than FANCY's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By formsunfeen their dirge is fung ;
There HONOUR comes, a PILGRIM grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And FREEDOM fhall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping HERMIT there!

ODE

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