Compofe the ftorm, difpell the gloom,
Till Nature wear her wonted bloom,
Till fields and fhades their sweets exhale,
And music fwell each opening gale :
Then o'er his breaft thy softness pour,
And let him learn the timely hour
To trace the world's benignant laws,
And judge of that presiding cause,
Who founds on difcord beauty's reign,
Converts to pleasure every pain,
Subdues each hoftile form to rest,
And bids the univerfe be blefs'd.
O thou, whofe pleasing power I fing,
If right I touch the votive string,
If equal praise I yield thy name,
Still govern thou thy poet's flame;
Still with the Muse my bosom share,
And foothe to peace intruding care.
But most exert thy pleafing power
On friendship's confecrated hour;
And while my Sophron points the road
To godlike wisdom's calm abode,
Or warm in freedom's ancient cause
Traceth the fource of Albion's laws,
Add thou o'er all the generous toil
The light of thy unclouded fmile.
But, if by fortune's stubborn sway,
From him and Friendship torn away,
I court the Muse's healing spell
For griefs that ftill with abfence dwell,
Do thou conduct my fancy's dreams
To fuch indulgent placid themes,
As juft the ftruggling breast may cheer
And juft fufpend the starting tear,
Yet leave that facred fenfe of woe
Which none but friends and lovers know.
OT for themselves did human kind
Contrive the parts by heaven affign'd
On life's wide scene to play :
Not Scipio's force, nor Cæfar's skill
Can conquer glory's arduous hill,
If fortune close the way.
Yet ftill the felf-depending foul,
Though last and least in fortune's roll,
His proper fphere commands;
And knows what nature's feal bestow'd,
And fees, before the throne of God,
The rank in which he stands.
Who train'd by laws the future age,
Who refcued nations from the rage
Of partial, factious power,
My heart with diftant homage views;
Content if thou, celeftial Mufe,
Didst rule my natal hour.
Not far beneath the hero's feet,
Nor from the legislator's feat
Stands far remote the bard.
Though not with public terrors crown'd,
Yet wider fhall his rule be found,
More lafting his award.
Lycurgus fashion'd Sparta's fame,
And Pompey to the Roman name
Gave univerfal fway:
Where are they?-Homer's reverend page
Holds empire to the thirtieth age,
And tongues and climes obey.
And thus when William's acts divine
No longer shall from Bourbon's line
Draw one vindictive vow;
When Sidney fhall with Cato rest,
And Ruffel move the patriot's breast
No more than Brutus now;
Yet then shall Shakespeare's powerful art
O'er every paffion, every heart,
Confirm his awful throne:
Tyrants shall bow before his laws;
And freedom's, glory's, virtue's caufe,
Their dread affertor own.
AREWELL to Leyden's lonely bound,
The Belgian Mufe's fober feat;
Where dealing frugal gifts around
To all the favorites at her feet,
She trains the body's bulky frame
For paffive, perfevering toils;
And left, from any prouder aim,
The daring mind fhould fcorn her homely fpoils, She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame.
Farewell the grave, pacific air,
Where never mountain zephyr blew :
The marthy levels lank and bare,
Which Pan, which Ceres never knew:
The Naiads, with obfcene attire,
Urging in vain their urns to flow;
While round them chaunt the croking choir, And haply footh fome lover's prudent woe, Or prompt fome reftive Bard, and modulate his lyre.
Farewell, ye nymphs, whom fober care of gain
Snatch'd in your cradles from the god of love:
She render'd all his boafted arrows vain;
And all his gifts did he in spite remove.
Ye too, the flow-ey'd fathers of the land,
With whom dominion steals from hand to hand,
Unown'd, undignify'd by public choice,
I go where liberty to all is known,
And tells a monarch on his throne,
He reigns not but by her preferving voice.
II. I.
O my lov'd England, when with thee
Shall I fit down, to part no more?
Far from this pale, discolor'd sea,
That fleeps upon the reedy shore,
When shall I plough thy azure tide?
When on thy hills the flocks admire,
Like mountain fnows; till down their fide
I trace the village and the facred fspire,
While bowers and copfes green the golden flope divide?
II. 2.
Ye nymphs who guard the pathlefs grove,
Ye blue-ey'd fifters of the streams,
With whom I wont at morn to rove,
With whom at noon I talk'd in dreams;
O! take me to your haunts again,
The rocky spring, the greenwood glade;
To guide my lonely footsteps deign,
To prompt my flumbers in the murmuring shade, And footh my vacant ear with many an airy ftrain.
And thou, my faithful harp, no longer mourn
Thy drooping mafter's inaufpicious hand
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