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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 sich 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 gree:ing,

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

In vain-Such bliss to one alone,
Of all the fons of soul was known,
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,

Have now o’erturn'd th' inspiring bowers,
Os curtain’d close such scene from every future view.

ODE,

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fink
By all their country's wishes bleft!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there shall 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 shall a-while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

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Thou, who fit'ít 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'st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hid'it 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, see, 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 rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,

O'ertook him on his blasted road,
And sop'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.

I fee recoil his fable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own ;
O Maid, for all thy love to Britain fhown,

Where Justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our

monarch's throne !

ODE

ODE TO LIBERTY.

STROPHE.

WHO

HO shall awake the Spartan fife,

And call in solemn sounds to life,
The youths, whofe locks divinely fpreading,

Like vernal hyacinths in fallen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,

Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view ?
What new Alcæus, fancy-bleft,
Shall fing the sword, in myrtles drett,

At Wisdom's fhrine a-while its flame concealing, (What place fo fit to seal a deed renown'd ?)

Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted O Goddess, in that feeling hour,

[wound ! When most its founds would court thy ears,

Let not my shell's misguided power, E’er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.

No,

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