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Deserted stream, and mute ?
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
To him thy cell was hewn ;
Thy turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
Thy temple’s pride design:
In all who view the shrine.
There Pi&ure's toil shall well relate,
+ A river in Suflex.
O'er mortal bliss prevail :
With each disastrous tale.
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
Allow'd with thee to dwell :
To hear a British shell!
ODE O DE TO F E A R.
Hou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is thewn;
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear !
I fee, I see thee near.
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
The grief-full Muse addreft her infant tongue;
Silent and pale in wild amazement hung.
Yet he, the Bard * who first invok'd thy name,
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel :
But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel,
But who is he, whom later garlands grace,
Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews, to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and Furies shar'd the baleful grove # Æschylus.
Wrapt in thy cleudy veil th' inceftuous Queen
Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the filent scene,
And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear’d.
O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,
Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line, Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine !
Thou who such weary lengths halt paft,
(thought; Which thy awakening bards have told: