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And fhe, 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 paffions kept aloof,

Far from the fainted growing woof:
But near it fate ecftatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder:
And Truth, in funny veft 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, whofe 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 fome cliff, to heaven up-pil'd,

Of rude accefs, of profpect wild,
D 3

Where,

Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange fhades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,

Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,

An Eden, like his own, lies fpread.

I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that drop'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 shades retreating,
With many a vow from Hope's afpiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ;
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 close such scene from every future view.

OD E,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

How fleep the brave, who fink to reft,

By all their country's wishes bleft!

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.

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unfeen their dirge is fung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,`
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom fhall a-while repair,
"To dwell a weeping hermit there!

ODE TO MERC Y.

STROPHE.

Thou, who fit'ft a fmiling bride

By Valour's arm'd and awful fide, 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'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodlefs 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 shrine my country's genius stands,

And decks thy altar ftill, tho' pierc'd with many a

wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even our joys provoke,

The Fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,

And

And rufh'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;
Thy form, from out thy fweet abode,

O'ertook him on his blafted road,

And ftop'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. fee recoil his fable steeds,

That bore him fwift to favage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;

O Maid, for all thy love to Britain fhown,
Where Juftice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a rofeate bower,

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

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