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Young Fancy thus, to me divineft name,

To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven,
The ceft of amplest power is given,
To few the god-like gift afligns,

To gird their bleft prophetic loins, [flame.
And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her
The band, as fairy legends say,
Was wove on that creating day,
When he, who call’d with thought to birth
Yon tented sky, this laughing earth,
And drest with springs, and forests tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd Enthusiast woo’d,
Himself in some diviner mood,
Retiring, fate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his saphire throne,
The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to found,
Now sublimest triumph swelling,
Now on love and mercy dwelling;


And she, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic notes aloud :
And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy subject life was born!
The dangerous passions kept aloof,
Far from the fainted growing woof:
But near it fate ecstatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder :
And Truth, in funny veft array'd,
By whose the Tarsol's eyes were made ;
All the shadowy tribes of Mind,
In braided dance their murmurs joind,
And all the bright uncounted Powers,
Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers.
Where is the Bard, whose soul can now
Its high presuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him design'd ?

High on some cliff, to heaven up-pild,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,

D 3


Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange shades 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 spread.
I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that drop'd etheral dew,
Nigh spher'd in heaven its native strains could hear :
On which that antient trump he reach'd was hung;

Thither oft his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,
With mapy a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ;

In vain-Such bliss to one alone,
Of all the sons of soul 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.


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Ow sleep the brave, who fink to rest,

By all their country's wishes bleft! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mold, She there fall dress a sweeter sod, Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

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



Thou, who fit'it a smiling bride

By Valour's arm'd and awful fide, Gentleft of sky-born forms, and best ador'd :

Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

Win'ft from his fatal grasp the spear, And hid'At in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy bosom 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' piered with many a

wound !

When he whom even our joys provoke,
The Fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,


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