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By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wayy sweep
In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat,
On whose enameld fide,
When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet.
O fifter meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth,
Thy sober aid and native charms infufe !
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Tho' beauty cull'd the wreath,
Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
While Rome could none esteem,
But virtue's patriot theme,
You lov'd her hills, and led her laureate band :
But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish d throne,
And turn'd thy face, and Aed her alter'd land.
No more, in hall or bower,
The paflions own thy power,
Love, only love her forceless numbers mean :
For thou hast left her shrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
Tho'taste, tho' genius bless
To fome divine excess,
Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole ;
What each, what all supply,
May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou can'lt raise the meeting soul!
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty talk,
I only seek to find thy temperate vale:
Where oft my reed might found
To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy fons, O Nature, learn my tale.
ODE ON THE POÉTICAL CHARACTER.
Sonce, if not with light regard,
I read aright that gifted Bard, (Him whore school above the rest His lovelieft Elfin
has bleft) One, only one, unrival'd fair , Might hope the magic girdle wear, At solemn turney hung on high, The wilh of each love-darting eye;
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin. fame,
With whisper'd spell had hurft the starting band, It left unbleft her loath'd dishonour'd fide ;
Happier hopeless fair, if never
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied !
* Florimel, See Spenser Leg. 4th.
Young Fancy thus, to me divineft name,
To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven,
The celt of ampleft power is given,
To few the god-like gift assigns,
To gird their bleft prophetic loins, [Alame.
And gaze her vifions 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, sate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his saphire throne,
The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to sound,
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 sunny vest array’d,
By whose the Tarsol's eyes were made ;
All the shadowy tribes of Mind,
In braided dance their murmurs join'd,
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-pil'd,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,