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There, every Grace and Muse shall throng,
Exalt the dance, or animate the fong;
There Youths and Nymphs, in confort gay,
Shall hail the rifing, close the parting day.
With me, alas! thofe joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more.
Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The ftill-believing, still renew'd defire; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind Deceivers of the foul;
But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th' involuntary Tear?
Why words fo flowing, thoughts fo free,
Stop, or turn nonfenfe, at one glance of thee?
Thee, dreft in Fancy's airy beam,

Abfent I follow through th' extended Dream;


Delectabere tibia

Mixtis carminibus, non fine fiftula.

Illic bis pueri die

Numen cum teneris virginibus tuum Laudantes, pede candido

In morem Salium ter quatient humum.

Me nec femina, nec puer

Jam, nec fpes animi credula mutui,

Nec certare juvat mero

Nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

Sed cur, heu! Ligurine, cur

Manat rara meas lacryma per genas

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Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burk (ah cruel !) from my arms; And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or foftly glide by the Canal,

Now shown by Cynthia's filver ray,

And now, on rolling waters snatch'd

Cur facunda parum decoro

Inter verba cadit lingua filentio ? Nocturnis te ego fomniis


Jam captum teneo, jám volucrem fequor Te per gramina Martii

Campi, te per aquas, dure, volubiles.


Part of the NINTH ODE



LEST you should think that verse shall die,
Which founds the Silver Thames along,

Taught on the wings of Truth to fly

Above the reach of vulgar fong;

Though daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spenfer native Mufes play;
Nor yet fhall Waller yield to time,

Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay-
Sages and Chiefs long fince had birth
Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd;

NE Forte credas interitura, quae

Longe fonantem natus ad Aufidur Non ante vulgatas per artes

Verba loquor focianda chordis ;

Non, fi priores Matonius tenet
Sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent
Ceaeque, et Alcaei minaces
Stefichorique graves Camenae:

Nec, fi quid olim lufit Anacreon,
Delevit aetas: fpirat adhuc amor,


These rais'd new Empires o'er the Earth,

And Thofe, new Heavens and Systems fram'd.

Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's pride!
They had no Poet, and they died:
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no Poet, and are dead.

Vivuntque commiffi calores
Aeoliae fidibus puellae.

Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; fed omnes illacrymabiles
Urgentur ignotique longa
Nocte, carent quia vate facro.



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