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The Grul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand",
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
He pass’d with unwet feet thro' all our land.
To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfith mountains rounding;
Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild storm even Nature's self confounding,
Withering her giant fons with strange uncoath
This pillard earth fo firm and wide,
By winds and inward labours torn, In thunders dread was push'd aside,
And down the shouldering billows born.
# This tradition is mentioned by several of our old hiftorians. Some naturalists too have endeavoured to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I don't remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it.
And see, like gems, her laughing train,
The little isles on every side,
Mona *, once hid from those who search the main,
Where thousand Elfin shapes abide,
And Wight who checks the westering tide,
For thee consenting heaven has each bestow'd,
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride :
To thee this bleft divorce she ow'd, [abode! For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last
SECOND EPODE: Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, 'Midst the green navel of our ifle,
* There is a tradition in the isle of Man, that a mermaid becoming enamoured of a
young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, Occasioned by his horror and surprize at her appearance. This however was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that in revenge for his treatment of her, she punish'd the whole illand, by covering it with a milt, so that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never ar. rived at it, but wandered up and dowa the sea, or were on fudden vrecked upon its cliffs,
Thy shrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-enforcing Goddess, stood !
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet :
Tho' now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place ;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous Model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Droids fing
Their triumphs to th' immortal ftring.
How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd ?
Even now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise !
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic thro’ the mix'd delign;
The secret builder knew to chuse,
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins ;
There on the walls the Patriot's fight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame thro' every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band, That near her inmoft altar stand !
Now footh her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's focial form to gain :
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
Even Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and forms grow calm;
Her let our fires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd fhore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hairs.
Till, in one loud applauding found,
The nations thout to her around,
O how supremely art thou bleft,
Thou, Lady, thou fhalt role the wefel: