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 isle,
By warlike Honour led!
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!
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 search 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 fpear and shield,
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 tissued veft,
By Reason, 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 converfe fweet impart,
To read in man the native heart,
To learn, where Science fure is found,
From Nature as the lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each fhifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the leffons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Haft bleft this focial fcience moft.
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 musing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rife;
While, ever varying as they pass,
To fome Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-rob'd maid combine,
And those the laughing fatyrs join!
But who is he whom now the 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 whose name is known
To Britain's favour'd isle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,
(Whofe jewels in his crisped 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 Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern fhades:
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, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's fhore,
* Alluding to the Milefian Tales, fome of the earlieft romances.
Monfieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.
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
You rove thy fcene-full world with thee!
The PASSIONS. An ODE for Music.
HEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was young,
W While yet in early Greece the fung,
The Paffions oft, to hear her fhell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Muse'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, inspir'd,
From the fupporting myrtles round
They fnatch'd her inftruments of found,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreffive power.
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 Auger rufh'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his fecret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And fwept with hurried hand the strings.
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 fo fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail !
Still would her touch the ftrain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo ftill through all the fong; And where her fweeteft theme the chofe,
A foft refponfive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
He threw his blood-ftain'd fword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
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