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Thou, who bad'At thy tartles bear
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,
And sought'At thy native skies:
When War, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bad his storms arise !
Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,
Our youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn :
But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres,
charm thy partial ears, And gain thy bleft return !
O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind !
O rise, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train ;
The British lion, Goddess Sweet,
Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.
Let others court thy transient smile,
But come to grace thy western ille,
By warlike Honour led !
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!
Arewell, for clearer ken design'd;
The dim-discover'd tracts of mind :
Truths which, from action's paths retird,
My filent search in vain requir'd !
No more my fail that deep explores,
No more I search those magic shores,
What regions part the world of soul,
Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:
If e’er I round such Fairy field,
Some power impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizzard Passions fly,
By which the giant Follies die!
Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen,
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green :
Where Science, prank'd in tissued veft,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,
Comes like a bride, so trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade !
Youth of the quick uncheated light,
Thy walks, Observance, more invite !
O thou, who lov'it that ampler range,
Where life's wide prospects round thee change,
And, with her mingled sons allied,
Throw'lt the prattling page afide :
To me in converse sweet impart,
To read in man the native heart,
To learn, where Science sure is found,
From Nature as she lives around :
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious fore,
Reverse the lessons taught before,
Alluring from a safe rule,
To dream in her enchanted school ;
Thou, heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Haft bleft this focial science moft.
Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the charmful talk,
In pageant quaint, in motley mak,
Behold, before her musing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rise ;
While ever varying as they pass,
To fome Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-rob's Maids combiney
And those the laughing Satyrs join!
But who is he whom now the views,
In robe of wild contending hues ?
Thou by the passions nurs'd; I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whose name is known,
To Britain's favour'd ille alone :
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit;
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to Thare,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos’d attends thy fide!