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Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O foul-enforcing Goddess, ftood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet :
Tho' now with hopeless coil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treffed 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 fill, 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 :
Amidt the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous Model ftill 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 Druids fing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
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 favoar'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise !
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic thro' the mix'd defiga;
The secret builder knew to chyse,
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 inmost 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 deep :
Before whose breathing bosom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and forms grow calm ;;
Her let our Gres and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding found,
The nations thout to her around,
O how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the went:
Hile, lost to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day :
While stain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May:
The thoughts which musing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend :
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief thé foften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid :
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf fhall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial form's shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head!
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted reft :
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Creffy's laurell'd field,