Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd,
Himself in fome diviner mood,
Retiring, fate with her alone,

And plac'd her on his sapphire throne,
The whiles, the vaulted thrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to found,
Now fublimeft triumph fwelling;
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And the, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic notes aloud :

And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy fubject life was born?
The dangerous passions kept aloof,
Far from the fainted growing woof:
But near it fate ecftatic Wonder,
Liftening the deep applauding thunder:
And Truth, in funny weft array'd,

By whofe the Tarfol's eyes were made;
All the fhadowy tribes of Mind,
In braided dance their murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted powers,
Who feed on heaven's ambrofial flowers.
Where is the Bard, whose foul can now
Its high prefuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him defign'd?
High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude access, of profpect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange fhades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its fprings unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread.
I view that oak, the fancied glades among.
By which a Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

Nigh fpher'd in heaven its native ftrains could hear:

On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung;

Thither oft his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle fhades retreating,

With many a vow from Hope's afpiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding fteps purfue;
In vain-Such blifs to one alone,

Of all the fons of foul was known,

And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers,

Or curtain'd clofe fuch fcene from every future view.

O D E.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

OW fleep the brave, who fink to reft,

How the find the

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there fhall drefs a fweeter fod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

Gentleft of sky-born forms, and best ador'd:
Who oft with fongs, divine to hear,
Win'ft from his fatal grafp the fpear,

And hid'it in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!
Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bofom bare art found,
Pleading for him the youth who finks to ground :
See Mercy, fee, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy fhrine my country's genius ftands,
And decks thy altar ftill, though pierc'd with many
a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom ev'n our joys provoke,
The fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our ifle his prey;

Thy form, from out thy fweet abode,
O'er took him on his blafted road,

And ftopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.
I fee recoil his fable fteeds,

That bore him swift to favage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;
O Maid, for all thy love to Britain show,
Where Juftice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower.

Thou, thou fhalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne !

O Goddefs, in that feeling hour,
When moft its founds would court thy ears,
Let not my fhell's mifguided power,
E'er draw thy fad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy face,

With heaviest found, a giant-statue, fell,
Pufh'd by a wild and artless race,
From off its wide ambitious bafe,

When Time his northern fons of spoil awoke,

And all the blended work of strength and grace, With many a rude repeated stroke,

And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.

EPODE.

2.

Yet, ev'n where'er the leaft appear'd,
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, 'midft the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her ftrength were found;
They faw by what escap'd the ftorm,
How wondrous rofe her perfect form;
How in the great, the labour'd'whole,
Each mighty master pour'd his foul;
For funny Florence, feat of art,
Beneath her vines preferv'd a part,
Till they, whom science lov'd to name,
(0, who could fear it?) quench'd her flame.
And, lo, an humbler relic laid

In jealous Pifa's olive fhade!

See fmall Marino joins the theme,
Though leaft, not last in thy esteem;
Strike, louder ftrike th' ennobling strings
To thofe, whofe merchants fons were kings:
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride:
Hail port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure :
Nor e'er her former pride relate,
To fad Liguria's bleeding state.

Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I feek,
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rouz'd in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled.)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those to whom thy ftork is dear:
Thofe whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whole crown a British queen refus'd!
The magick works, thou feel'ft the ftrains,
One holier name alone remains;
The perfect spell fhall then avail,
Hall, Nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

ANTISTROPHE.

VOL. VII.

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique ftory, Saw Britain link'd to his now adverfe ftrand, * No fea between, nor cliff fublime and hoary, He pafs'd with unwet feet through all our land. To the blown Baltic then, they fay, The wild waves found another way, Where Orcas lowls, his wolfish mountains rounding;

Till all the banded weft at once 'gan rife,

A wild wide storm ev'n Nature's felf confounding, Withering her giant fons with ftrange uncouth furprize.

This pillar'd earth fo firm and wide,

By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was pufh'd afide,

And down the fhouldering billows borne.
And fee, like gems, her laughing train,
The little ifles on every fide,

Monat, once hid from thofe who fearch the main,
Where thousand elfin shapes abide,

And Wight who checks the westering tide,
For thee confenting heav'n has each bestow'd,
A fair attendant on her fovereign pride:

To thee this bleft divorce fhe ow'd,

For thou haft made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode !

SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis faid, an hoary pile,
'Midft the green navel of our inle,
Thy fhrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-enforcing Gooddefs, ftood!
There of the painted natives' feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place ;
Whether the fiery-treffed Dane,
Or Roman's felf o'erturn'd the fanc,
Or in what heav'n-left age it fell,
"T were hard for modern fong to tell.
Yet ftill, if truth those beams infufe,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidit the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands bleft,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe dreit,

* This tradition is mention'd by feveral of cur old hiftorians. Some naturalifts too have endeavour'd to fupport the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correfpondent difpofit.on of the two oppofite coafts. I do not remember that any poetical ufe has been hitherto made of it.

There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mermaid becoming enamour'd of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walk'd on the thore, and opened her paffion to him, but was receiv'd with a coldness, occafioned by his horror and furprize at her appearance. This however was fo mifconftruet! by the fea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, fhe punifh'd the whole inland, by covering it with a mift, fo that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arriv'd at it, but wandered up and down the fea, or were on a fudden wrecked upon its cliffs. L

The chiefs who fill our Albion's story, In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory, Hear that conforted Druids fing Their triumphs to th' immortal string. How may the poet now unfold, What never tongue or numbers told? How learn delighted, and amaz'd, What hands unknown that fabric rais'd? Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes, In Gothic pride it feems to rife! Yet Grecia's graceful orders join, Majeftic, through the mix'd defign; The fecret builder knew to chufe, Each sphere-found gem of richest hues : Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains, When nearer funs emblaze its veins; There on the walls the Patriot's fight May ever hang with fresh delight, And, grav'd with fome prophetic rage, Read Albion's fame through every age. Ye forms divine, ye laureate band, That near her inmoft altar ftand! Now foothe her, to her blissful train Blithe Concord's focial form to gain: Concord, whofe myrtle wand can steep Ev'n Anger's blood-fhot eyes in fleep : Before whose breathing bofom's balm, Rage drops his fteel, and forms grow calm; Her let our fires and matrons hoar Welcome to Britain's ravag'd fhore, Our youths, enamour'd of the fair, Play with the tangles of her hair, Till, in one loud applauding found, The nations fhout to her around, O, how fupremely art thou bleft, Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the weft!

W

HILE, loft to all his former

mirth,

Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day :

While ftain'd with blood he ftrives to tear Unfeemly from his fea-green hair

The wreaths of chearful May:

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,

And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's defcending wave

His country's vows fhall blefs the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:

That facred fpot the village hind
With every sweetest turf fhall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms fhall fit at eve,

And bend the penfive head;
And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their fainted reft:
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Creffy's laurel'd field,

And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy steel,
And with th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bofom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted treffes madly spread,
To every fod which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er fhall fhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign reftor'd:
Till William feek the fad retreat,
And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated fword.

If, weak to foothe fo foft an heart,
Thefe pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear :
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and paie thou fee'ft him lie,
Wild war infulting near✔

Wheree'er from time thou court'ft relief,
The Muse shall ftill, with focial grief,

Her gentleft promise keep :
Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the fad repeated tale,

And bid her fhepherds weep.

ODE TO EVENING.

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic fway,

Our youth thall fix fome feftive day,
His fullen fhrines to burn:

But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres,
What founds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy blest return!

O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind!
O rife, and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy train:

The British lion), Goddefs fweet,
Lies ftretch'd on earth to kifs thy feet,

And own thy holier reign.

Let others court thy tranfient smile,
But come to grace thy western ifle,

By warlike Honour led!

And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

THE MANNERS.

F

AN ODE.

AREWELL, for clearer ken defign'd;
The dim-difcover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My filent fearch in vain requir'd!
No more my fail that deep explores,
No more I fearch those magic shores,
What regions part the world of foul,
Or whence thy ftreams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round fuch fairy field,
Some power impart the spear and fhield,
At which the wizard paffions fly,
By which the giant follies die!

Farewell the porch, whofe roof is feen,
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green;
Where Science, prank'd in tiffued vest,
By Reafon, Pride, and Fancy dreft,
Comes like a bride, fo trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's fhade!

Youth of the quick uncheated fight,
Thy, walks, Obfervance, more invite !
O thou, who lov'ft that ampler range,
Where life's wide profpects round thee change,
And, with her mingled fons ally'd,
Throw'ft the prattling page afide:
To me in converse sweet impart,
To read in man the native heart,

To learn, where Science fure is found,
From Nature as fhe lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each thifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the leffons taught before,
Alluring from a fafer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Haft bleft this focial science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain fhe finds the charmful task,
In pageant quaint, in motley mask,
Behold, before her mufing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rife;

While, ever varying as they pafs,
To fome Contempt applies her glafs :
With thefe the white-rob'd maid combine,
And thofe the laughing fatyrs join!
But who is he whom row fhe views,
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the paffions nurs'd; I greet
'The comic fock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whofe name is known
To Britain's favour'd ifle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit,

There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,
(Whofe jewels in his crifped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy fide!
By old Miletus, who fo long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong,
By all you taught the Tufcan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern thades:

By him, whofe knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's luft of fame;

Whofe tales ev'n now, with echoes fweet,
Caftilia's Moorish hills repeat:

Or him 1, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's fhore,

Who drew the fad Sicilian maid,

By virtues in her fire betray'd :

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed; If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy feal!

Let fome retreating Cynic find

Thofe oft-turn'd fcrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree

To rove thy fcene-full world with thee!

THE

W

PASSIONS.

ΑΝ ODE FOR MUSIC.

HEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece the fung, The Paffions oft, to hear her thell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Difturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd. Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, infpir'd, From the fupporting myrtles round They fnatch'd her instruments of found, And as they oft had heard apart Sweet leffons of her forceful art, Each, for madnet's rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expreffive power.

* Alluding to the Milcfian Tales, fome of the earliest romances.

+ Cervantes.

Monfieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the found himself had made.

Next Anger rufh'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his fecret ftings,
In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the ftrings.

With woeful measures wan Despair-
Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits, by ftarts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely fcenes at diftance bail
Still would her touch the Arain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo ftill through all the fong; And where her sweeteft theme the chofe,

A foft refponfive voice was heard at every clofe, And Hope enchanted fmil'd, and wav'd her golden

hair.