And WIGHT, who checks the weft'ring tide,
For thee confenting heav'n has each bestow'd,
A fair attendant on her fov'reign pride:
To thee this bleft divorce fhe ow'd,
For thou haft made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode!
Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midft the green navel of our ifle,
Thy fhrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-enforcing goddefs, ftood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celeftial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treffed DANE,
Or ROMAN's felf o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heav'n left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern fong to tell.
Yet ftill, if truth thofe beams infufe,
Which guide at once, and charm the muse,
Beyond yon braided cloud that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd fky:
Amidit the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model ftill remains.
There happier than in iflands bleft,
Or bow'rs by fpring or Hebe dreft,
The chiefs who fill our ALBION's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Here their conforted 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?
Ev'n now, before his favour'd
In GOTHIC pride it seems to rife!
Yet GRECIA's graceful orders join,
Majeftic, through the mix'd defign;
The fecret builder knew to choofe,
Each sphere found gem of richeft hues :
Whate'er heav'n's purer mold contains,
When nearer funs emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's fight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with fome prophetic rage,
Read ALBION's fame through ev'ry age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar ftand;
Now foothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe CONCORD's focial form to gain:
CONCORD whofe myrtle wand can steep
Ev'n ANGER's blood-fhot eyes in fleep:
Before whofe breathing bofom's balm,
RAGE drops his steel, and storms grow
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 hair,
Till in one loud applauding found,
The nations fhout to her around.
O, how fupremely art thou bleft,
Thou, lady, who fhalt rule the weft!
HUMID feal of foft affections,
Tend'reft pledge of future blifs,
Deareft tie of young connections,
Love's firft fnow-drop, virgin KISS!
Speaking filence, dumb confeffion,
Paffion's birth, and infant's play,
Dove-like fondnefs, chafte conceffion,
Glowing dawn of brighter day!
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
When ling'ring lips no more must join;
What words can ever fpeak affection
So thrilling and fincere as thine?
THE COUNTRY APOTHECARY.
BUT foon a loud and hafty fummons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls:
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and bus'ness, bustle and conceit;
With looks unalter'd by thefe fcenes of woe,
With fpeed that, ent'ring, fpeaks his hafte to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and phyfic in his eye;
A potent quack, long vers'd in human ills,
Who firft infults the victim whom he kills;
Whofe murd'rous hand a drowfy bench protect,
And whofe moft tender mercy is—neglect.
Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his fapient fneer!
In hafte he feeks the bed where mis'ry lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, fome habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inur'd to pain,
And long, unheeded, knows remonftrance vain;
He ceafes now the feeble help to crave
Of man, and mutely haftens to the grave.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST.
'TWAS at the royal feaft, for PERSIA won,
By PHILIP's warlike fon:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero fate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So fhould defert in arms be crown'd.)
The lovely THAIS, by his fide,
Sate, like a blooming eaftern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deferve the fair.
TIMOTHEUS, plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes afcend the sky,
And heav'nly joys inspire.
The fong began from JOVE;
Who left his blifsful feats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love.)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god:
Sublime on radiant fpheres he rode,
When he to fair OLYMPIA prefs'd:
And while he fought her fnowy breast:
Then, round her flender waist he curl'd,
And ftamp'd an image of himself, a fov'reign of the world.
The lift'ning crowd admire the lofty found;
A prefent deity, they fhout around:
A prefent deity the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Affumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And feems to shake the spheres.
The praife of BACCHUS then, the fweet musician fung, Of BACCHUS ever fair, and ever young:
The jolly god, in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flufh'd with a purple grace
He fhews his honeft face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes! he comes! BACCHUS, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain:
BACCHUS' bleflings are a treasure,
Drinking is the SOLDIER's pleafure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Sooth'd with the found, the KING grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he flew the flain.
The mafter faw the madness rife ;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eves;
And, while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chofe a mournful mufe,
Soft PITY to infuse:
He fung DARIUS great and good,
By too fevere a fate,
Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,
Fall'n, from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
Deferted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed:
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to clofe his eyes.
With downcaft looks the joyless victor fate,
Revolving in his alter'd foul
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a figh he ftole;
And tears began to flow.
The mighty mafter fmil'd, to fee
That LOVE was in the next degree:
"Twas but a kindred found to move,
For PITY melts the mind to LOVE.
Softly fweet, in Lydian meafures,
Soon he footh'd his foul to pleasures.
WAR, he fung, is toil and trouble;
HONOUR but an empty bubble;
Never ending, ftill beginning,
Fighting ftill, and fill deftroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think! O, think it worth enjoying:
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