The gods to Bacchus gave the flower, To grace him in the genial hour.
O DE LIV. Grown YOUNG.
WHEN fprightly youths my eyes survey,
I too am young, and I am gay:
In dance my active body swims, And fudden pinions lift my limbs.
Haste, crown, Cybæba, crown my brows With garlands of the fragrant rose ! Hence, hoary age !---I now am strong, And dance, a youth among the young. Come then, my friends, the goblet drain! Bleft juice !---I feel thee in each vein! See! how with active bounds I fpring! How ftrong, and yet how fweet, I fing! How bleft am I who thus excell In pleasing arts of trifling well!
THE ftately fteed expreffive bears A mark imprinted on his hairs: The turban that adorns the brows Of Afia's fons, the Parthian shows : And marks betray the lover's heart, Deeply engrav'd by Cupid's dart: I plainly read them in his eyes, That look too foolish or too wife.
LAS! the powers of life decay! My hairs are fall'n, or changed to grey ! The fmiling bloom, and youthful grace, Is banish'd from my faded face! Thus man beholds, with weeping eyes, Himfelf half-dead before he dies.
For this, and for the grave, I fear, And pour the never-ceasing tear! A dreadful profpect ftrikes my eye, I foon muft ficken, foon muft die. For this the mournful groan I shed, I dread-alas! the hour I dread! What eye can stedfastly survey Death, and its dark tremendous way For foon as fate has clos'd our eyes, Man dies for ever, ever dies! All pale, all fenseless in the urn! Never, ah! never to return.
ONCE more, not uninspir'd, the ftring
I waken, and fpontaneous fing:
No Pythic laurel-wreath I claim, That lifts ambition into fame: My voice unbidden tunes the lay: Some god impells, and I obey.
Liften, ye groves !---The Muse prepares A facred fong in Phrygian airs; Such as the swan expiring fings, Melodious by Cäyfter's springs, While liftening winds in filence hear, And to the gods the music bear.
Celeftial Mufe! attend, and bring Thy aid, while I thy Phoebus fing: To Phoebus and the Mufe belong The laurel, lyre, and Delphic fong. Begin, begin the lofty strain! How Phoebus lov'd, but lov'd in vain! How Daphne fled his guilty flame, And scorn'd a god that offer'd fhame. With glorious pride his vows the hears, And heaven, indulgent to her prayers, To laurel chang'd the nymph, and gave Her foliage to reward the brave.
Ah! how, on wings of love convey'd, He flew to clasp the panting maid! Now, now o'ertakes !---but heaven deceives His hope---he feizes only leaves.
Why fires my raptur'd breast? ah! why Ah! whither ftrives my foul to fly? I feel the pleasing frenzy strong, Impulfive to fome nobler fong : Let, let the wanton fancy play,
But guide it, left it devious stray.
But oh! in vain, my Mufe denies Her aid, a flave to lovely eyes;
Suffice it to rehearse the pains
Of bleeding nymphs, and dying swains ; Nor dare to wield the fhafts of Love, That wound the gods, and conquer Jove. I yield adieu the lofty ftrain! I am Anacreon once again : Again the melting song I play, Attemper'd to the vocal lay: See! fee! how with attentive ears The youths imbibe the nectar'd airs! And quaff, in lowery fhades reclin'd, My precepts, to regale the mind.
Melancholy: An Ode, occafion'd by the Death of
a beloved Daughter, 1723,
Daphnis and Lycidas. A Paftoral,
The First Ode of Horace tranflated,
An Epistle to my Friend Mr. Elijah Fenton, Author
of Mariamne, a Tragedy, 1726,
A Dialogue between a Lady and her Looking Glafs,
while fhe had the Green-Sickness,
The Seat of War in Flanders, &c.
To the Right Honourable Charles Lord Cornwallis,
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