II. 2.

Now oft, where happy fpirits dwell,
Where yet he tunes his charming fhell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The genius of his country ftands.
To listening gods he makes him known,
That man divine, by whom were sown
The feeds of Græcian fame:

Who firft the race with freedom fir'd;
From whom Lycurgus Sparta's fons inspir'd;
From whom Plataan palms and Cyprian trophies came.
II. 3.

O nobleft, happiest age !

When Aristides rul'd, and Cimon fought;
When all the generous fruits of Homer's page
Exulting Pindar faw to full perfection brought.
O Pindar, oft fhalt thou be hail'd of me :
Not that Apollo fed thee from his shrine;
Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee;
Nor yet that, ftudious of thy notes divine,

Pan danc'd their measure with the fylvan throng;
But that thy fong

Was proud to unfold

What thy base rulers trembled to behold,

Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell
The deeds of Athens and the Perfian fhamé:
Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.
But thou, O faithful to thy fame,
The Mufe's law didft rightly know;
That who would animate his lays,
And other minds to virtue raise,

Muft feel his own with all her spirit glow.
III. I.

Are there, approv'd of later times,
Whofe verfe adorn'd a * tyrant's crimes?
Who faw majestic Rome betray'd,

And lent the imperial ruffian aid?

Alas! not one polluted bard,

No, not the strains that Mincius heard,

Or Tibur's hills reply'd,

Dare to the Mufe's ear aspire;

Save that, inftructed by the Græcian lyre,

With freedom's ancient notes their fhameful task they

IIL 2.

Mark, how the dread Pantheon ftands,

Amid the domes of modern hands:

Amid the toys of idle state,

How fimply, how feverely great!

[hide.

Octavius Cæfar.

Then

Then turn, and, while each western clime
Prefents her tuneful fons to Time,

So mark thou Milton's name;

And add, "Thus differs from the throng "The spirit which inform'd thy aweful song,

Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's III. 3. {fame."

Yet hence barbaric zeal

His memory with unholy rage pursues;

While from these arduous cares of public weal
She bids each bard begone, and reft him with his Muse.

O fool! to think the man, whofe ample mind
Muft grafp at all that yonder ftars furvey;
Muft join the nobleft form of every kind,
The world's most perfect image to display,
Can e'er his country's majefty behold,

Unmov'd or cold!

O fool! to deem

That He, whose thought muft vifit every theme,
Whose heart must every strong emotion know
By nature planted, cr by fortune taught;
That He, if haply fome presumptuous foe,
With falfe ignoble science fraught,

Shall

Shall fpurn at freedom's faithful band;
That He, their dear defence will fhun,
Or hide their glories from the fun,

Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand!
IV. I.

I care not that in Arno's plain,

Or on the sportive banks of Seine,

From public themes the Mufe's quire

Content with polish'd ease retire.

Where priests the studious head command,
Where tyrants bow the warlike hand

To vile ambition's aim,

Say, what can public themes afford,

Save venal honours to an hateful lord,

Referv'd for angry heaven and fcorn'd of honest fame?

IV. 2.

But here, where freedom's equal throne

To all her valiant fons is known;

Where all are confcious of her cares,

And each the power, that rules him, shares;

Here let the bard, whofe daftard tongue
Leaves public arguments unfung,

Bid public praise farewell:

Let him to fitter climes remove

Far

Far from the heroe's and the patriot's love,

And lull mysterious monks to flumber in their cell.
IV. 3.

O HASTINGS, not to all

Can ruling heav'n the fame endowments lend:
Yet ftill doth Nature to her offspring call,

That to one general weal their different powers they bend,
Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine
Inform the bofom of the Mufe's fon;

1

Though with new honours the patrician's line
Advance from age to age; yet thus alone

They win the fuffrage of impartial fame.

The poet's name

He best shall prove,

Whofe lays the foul with nobleft paffions move.

But thee, O progeny of heroes old,

Thee to feverer toils thy fate requires:

The fate which form'd thee in a chofen mould,
The grateful country of thy fires,

Thee to fublimer paths demand;
Sublimer than thy fires could trace,

Or thy own EDWARD teach his race,

Though Gaul's proud genius fank beneath his hand.

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