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* And bid it round heaven's altars shed At her approach, see Hope, sec Fear, “ The fragrance of its bluthing head:

See Expectation fly; “ Shall raise from earth the latent gem And Disappointment in the rear, “ To glitter on the diadem.

That blaits the promis d joy. « LO, Granta waits to lead her blooming band: The tear which pity taught to flow "Not obvious, not obtrusive, the

The eye shali then disown; "No vulgar praise, no venal incense fings; The heart that melts for others' woe “ Nor dares with courtly tongue refind

Shall then scarce feel its own. “ Profane thy inborn royalty of mind :

The wounds which now each moment bleed, She reveres herself and thee.


Each moment then thall close; « With modest pride to grace thy youthful And tranquil days thall still fuceced “ The laureate wreath, that Cecil wore, the To nights of calm repose. “ And to thy juft, thy gentle hand brings, “ Submits the fasces of her sway,

O fairy elf! but grant me this, « While spirits blest above, and men below,

This one kind comfort send ; “ Join with glad voice the loud fymphonious lay. And so may never-fading bliss « Thro' the wild waves, as they roar, “ With watchful eye and dauntlets inien So may the glow-worm's glimm'ring light “ Thy steady course of honour keep,

Thy tiny footsteps lead “ Nor bear the rocks, nor seek the shore: To some new region of delight, • The star of Brunswick smiles serene,

Unknown to mortal tread; " And gilds the horrors of the deep." And be thy acorn goblet filled

With heaven's ambrosial dew;
$ 83. A Prayer for Indifference. GREVILLE. From sweetest, freshest, flow'rs distillid,

That shed fresh sweets for you!
ET I've implor'd the gods in vain,

And pray'd till I've been weary; And what of life remains for me
For once I'll try my wish to gain

I'll pass in sober ease; Of Oberon the Fairy.

Half-pleas'd, contented will I be,

Content but half to please. Sweet airy being, wanton sprite.

That lurk'st in woods unteen, And oft by Cynthia's filver light

$ 84. The Fairy's Answer to Mrs. Greville's Tripp'st gaily o'er the green;

Prayer for Indifference. If e'er thy pitying heart was mov’d,

By the Countess of C-As ancient stories tell,

W'THOUT preamble, to my friend And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd

These hafty lines I'm bid to send, Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

Or give, if I am able: Oh deign once more t'exert thy pow'r!

I dare

not hesitate to say, Haply fome herb or tree,

Tho' I have trembled all the day

It looks so like a fable.
Sov'reign as juice of western flow'r,
Conceals a balm for me.

Last night's adventure is my theme;
I ask no kind return of love,

And should it strike you as a dream, No tempting charm to please;

Yet soon its high import Far from the heart those gifts remuve

Must make you own the matter such,

So delicate, it were too much That lighs for peace and ease:

To be compos'd in sport. Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,

The moon did shine serenely bright, Which, like the needle true,

And ev'ry dlar did deck the night, Turns at the touch of joy or woe,

While Zephyr fann'd the trees; But, turning, trembles too.

No more affail'd my mind's repose, Far as distress the soul can wound,

Save that yon stream, which murmuring flows, 'Tis pain in each degree:

Did echo to the breeze. "Tis bliss but to a certain bound;

Enrapt in solemn thoughts I sate, Beyond, is agony.

Revolving o'er the turns of fate, Take then this treacherous sense of mine, Yet void of hope or fear ;. Which dooms me still to smart;

When, lo! behold an airy throng, Which pleasure can to pain refine,

With lightest steps, and jocund song, Trains new pangs impart.

Surpris'd my eye and ear. Oh häne to shed the sacred balm!

A form superior to the rest My shatter'd nerves new string;

His little voice to me addressid, And for my guest, serenely calm,

And gently thus began; The nymph Indifference bring


“ I've heard ftrange things from one of you, Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! « Pray tell me if you think ’tis true;

Here as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, “ Explain it if you can.

A pamper'd menial drove me from the door « Such incense has perfum d my thronel

To feek a shelter in an humbler shed. Such eloquence my heart has won!

Oh take me to your hospitable dome! I think I guess the hand:

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! * I know her wit and beauty too,

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, « But why she sends a pray'r so new For I am poor, and miserably old. “ I cannot underitand.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief, « To light some flames, and some revive, If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, * To keep some others just alive,

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, * Full oft I am implor'd;

And tears of pity would not be repressid, “ But, with peculiar pow'r to please, Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we rea To supplicate for nought but eafé !

pine? “ 'Tis odd, upon my word !

'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see; * Tell her, with fruitless care I've fought; And your condition may be foor like mine, " And though my realms, with wonders traught, The Child of Sorrow and of Misery. * In remedies abound,

A little farm was my paternal lot; * No grain of cold indifference

Then like the lark Í sprightly hail'd the morn: “ Was ever yet allied to sense

But, ah! oppreslion forc'd me from my cot; “ In all my fairy round.

My cattle died, and blighted was iny corn. • The regions of the sky I'd trace,

My daughter, once the comfort of my age, « I'd raniack every earthly place,

Lur'd by a villain from her native home, “ Each leaf, each herb, each flow'r,

Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage, « To mitigate the pangs of fear,

And duom'd in scanty poverty to roam. ** Dispell the ciouds of black despair, “Or lull the restless hour.

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care!

Struck with lad anguish at the stern decree, « I would be generous as I'm just;

Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair ! * Bu: I obey, as others must,

And leit the world to wretchedneis and me. “Those laws which fate has made.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, (door, « My tiny kingdom how defend,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your " And what might be the horrid end, “ Should man my state invade?

Whose days are dwindled to the thortest span;

Oh give relief and Heaven will bless your store! « 'Twould put your mind into a rage, “ And luch unequal war to wage “ Suits not my regal duty!

$ 86. Pollio. An Elegiac Ode; written in the I dare not change a first decree:

Wood near R- Castle, 1762. Mickle. “ She's doom'd to please, nor can be free: “ Such is the lot of Beauty !"

Spein bonam ceriamque domum reporto. Hor.
This faid, he darted o'er the plain,
And after follow'd all his train:

The peaceful evening breathes her balmy

store, No glimpse of him I find: Biit sure I am, the little sprite

The playful school-boyswanton v'er thegreen, These words, before he tuok his fight,

Where spreading poplars thade the cottage-door, Imprinted on my mind.

The villagers in rustic joy convene.

Amid the secret windings of the wood, 685. The Beggar's Petition. ANON.

With folemn Meditation let me ftray;

This is the hour when to the wise and good P'ty the sorrows of a



The heavenly maid repays the toils of day, Whose trembling limbs have born him to the river murmurs, and the breathing gale

your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; The Itar of evening glimmers o'er the dale,

Whispers the gently.waving boughs among: Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store !

And leads the filent hoft of heaven along. These tatter'd clothes my poverty belpeak, These hoary locks proclaim my len thend years; How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

height, Has been the channel to a fiood of tears. The filver empress of the night appears! Yon house erected on the rising ground,

Yor. limpid pool resects a stream of light, With tempting aspect drew me from my road:

And faintly in its breast the woodland bears. For Plenty there a residence has found, The waters tumbling o'er their rocky bed, And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Solemn and constant, from yon dell resound;

Hrc Jorem sentire, deos: cunctos,

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The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade; The fainted well, where yon bleak hill declines, The bat, low-wheeling, ikims the dulky Has oft been conscious of those happy hours; ground,

But now the hill, the river crownd with pines, August and huary, o'er the sloping dale, And fainted well bave lost their chearing

TheGothic abbey rears its sculptur'd tow'rs; pow'rs; Dull thro' the roofs resounds the whistling gale, For thou art gone. My guide, my friend! oh Dark folitude among the pillars low'rs.

where, Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves,

Where hatt: hou Aed, and left me here behind? And folemn shade a chapel's fad remains, My tend'rest wish, my heart to thee was bare; Where yon scath'd poplar through the win- On now cut oft each paliage to my mind!

dows waves, And, twining round, the hoary arch fustains. How dreary is the gulph! how dark, how void,

The trackleis thores that never were repais'd! There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind, Dread feparation! on the depth untried,

Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, Jiope falters, and the soul recoils aghaft! Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclin'd, Wide round the spacious heavens I cast my eyes :

Pores on the graves, and lighs a broken pray'r, And Thali thele itars glow with immortal fire? Higho'erthepines,that withtheirdark’ningthade And could thy bright, thy living foul expire ?

Still thine the lifeleis glories of the skies? Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears Its crumbling turrets; itill its tow'ry head Farbe the thought! The pleasures most sublime,

A warlike mien, a sullen grandeur wears. The glow of triendthip, and the virtuous tear, So, 'midst the snow of age, a boattful air The tow’ring wish that icorns the bounds of

Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; time, Still his big bones his youthful prime declare,

Chill'd in this vale of deat!ı,but languish here. Tho'tremblingo'er the feeblecrutch he bends. So plant the vine on Norway's wintory land, Wildround thegatesthe duskywall-flow'rs creep, The languid Itranger feebiy buds, and dies: Where oft the knights the beauteous danies Yet there 's a clime where Virtue shall expand have led,

With godlike itrength beneath her native Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap,

skies! Where bays and ivyo'er the fragments spread. The lonely shepherd on the mountain's fide 'Twas here our fires, exulting from the fight,

With patience waits the roly-opening day ; Great in their bloody arms, march'do'erthe ea, The mariner at midnight's darksome lide Eyeing their rescued fields with proud delight!

With cheerful hope expects the morning ray: Now lost to them! and, ah!' how chang d Thus I, on life's storm-beaten ocean tots d, to me!

In mental vilion view the happy thore, This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze, Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast,

Where fate and death divide the friends no The dear idea of my Pollio bring ;

more! So shone the moon thro' these sofr-nodding trees,

When here we wander'd in the eves of ipring. Oh that some kind, some pitying kindred fade, When April's smiles the flow'ry lawn adorn, Would tell the awiut lccrets of the dead,

Who now perhaps frequents tliis olemngrove, And modelt cowslips deck the streamlet's side; When fragrant orchards to the roseat morn

And from my eyes the mortal film remove! Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colours Vain is the wish-yet surely not in vain dyed :

Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire So fair a blossom gentle Pollio wore,

Which scorns earthi's luxuries, which imies at These were the emblems of his healthful mind;

pain, To him the letter'd page display'd its lore,

And wings his spirit with sublime delire! To him bright Fancy all her wealth resign'd; To fan this spark of heaven, this ray divine, Him with her purest Aames the Muse endow'd, Still, O my soul! itill be thy dear employ;

Flames never to th' illiberal thought allied: Still thus to wander thro' the shades be thine,
The sacred sisters led where Virtue glow'd And Twell thy brealt with visionary joy!
In all her charms; he law, he felt, and died.

So to the dark-brow'd wood, or sacred mount,
O partner of my infant griefs and joys!
Bigwith the scenesnowpaft,my heart o'erflows; and, led in vilion, drank at Siloe's tount,

In ancient days, the holy feers retir'd; Bids each endearinent, fair as once, to rise, And dwells luxurious on her melting woes.

While riding ecftaties their boloms fird. Oft with the rising fun, when life was new, Restor'd creation bright before them role,

Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee; The burning deferis imild as Eden's plains: Oft by the moon have bruth'd the evening dew, One friendly tħade the wolf and lambikin chole

; When all was fearless innocence and glee. The fow'y mountain (ung, ‘Meliab reigns!


Tho' fainter raptures my cold breast inspire, And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,

Yet let me oft freqnent this solemn scene; Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. Oft to the abbey's shatter'd walls retire, (tween. Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins, What time the moonshine dimly gleams be

And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
There, where the cross in heary ruin nods, Resentment of my country's fate

Andweeping yewso'ershadethe letter'dstones, Within my filial breast shall beat;
While midnight filence wraps the fedrearabodes, And, spite of her insulting foe,
And sooths me wandering o'er my kindred My sympathizing verse fhall How:

“ Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Let kindled Fancy view the glorions morn, “ Thy banith'd

peace, thy laurels torn!"
When from the bursting graves the just thall
All Nature finiling; and, by angels borne, (rise,.
Melliah's cross far blazing o'er the lkies !

$88. Ode to Mirtb. SMOLLET. $ 87. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET.

ARENT of joy! heart-easing Mirth!

Whether of Venus or Aurora boru, , .

Yet Goddess fure of heavenly birth, Thy banith'd peace, thy laurels torn! Visit benign a son of Grief forlorn: Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,

Thy glitt'ring colours gay Lie slaughter'd on their native ground:

Around him, Mirth, display; Thy hospitable roofs no more

And o'er his raptur'd sente Invite the ftranger to the door;

Diffute thy living influence: Is fmcky ruias lank they lie,

So Thall each hill, in purer green array'd, The monuments of cruelty.

And flower-adorn'd in new-born beauty The wretched owner sees, afar,


[the shade, His all become the prey of war:

The grove shall smooth the horrors of Bethinks him of his babes and wife;

And Itreams in murmurs shall forget to flow. Then (mites his breast, and curses life. Shine, Goddess.thhine with unremitted ray,[day. Thy twains are familh d on the rocks, And gild (a second sun) with brighter beain our Where once they fed their wanton flocks:

Labour with thee forgets his pain, Thy ravith'd virgins shriek in vain;

And aged Poverty can smile with thee; Thy infants perith on the plain.

If thou he nigh, Grief's hate is vain, What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,

And weak th' uplifted arm of tyranny. Throʻ the wide-spreading waste of time,

The morning opes on higii Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,

His universal eye; Stili thone with indiminith'd blaze ?

And on the world doth pour Thy tow'ring spirit now is bioke,

His glories in a golden thow'r. Thy neck is bended to the yoke:

Lo! Darknesstrembling'forethehoftileray, What foreign arms could never quell,

Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn: By civil rage and rancour fell.

The brood obscene, that own her gloomy The rural pipe, and merry lay,

sway, No more shall cheer the happy day:

Troopin her rear and fly th'approach of morn. No social scenes of gay delight

Pale thiv'ring ghosts, that dread th’all-chearing Beguile the dreary winter night:


(night. No strains but those of forrow flow,

Quick as the lightning's flash glide to fepulchral And nought be heard but founds of woe;

But whence the gladd ning beam While the pale phantoms of the pain

That pours his purple stream Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.

O'er the long profpect wide ? Ob baneful cause, oh fatal morn,

'Tis Mirth. I see her fit Accurs d to ages yet unborn!

In majesty of light, The fons against their fathers stood;

With Laughter at her lide. The parent shed his children's blood,

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near Yet when the rage of battle ceas'd,

Wide waves her glancing wing in air; The victor's soul was not appeas'd:

And young Wit flings his pointed dart, The naked and forlorn must feel

That guiltless strikes the willing heart. Devouring flames and murd'ring steel!

Fear not now Aliction's pow'r, The pious mother doomd to death,

Fear not now wild Pallion's rage; Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath;

Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour, The bleak wind whistles round her head,

Save the tardy hand of Age. Her helpless orphans cry for bread;

Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet 'spray'r: Bereft of ihelter, food, and friend,

No cloud that rides the blait shall vex the She views the fades of night descend;

troubled air. Iiz


$ 89. Ode to Leven Water.' SMOLLET. And neighetobeamenged the poynctedd fpeeres, n Leven's banks, while free to rove,

Orr ynne blacke armoure staulke arounde ON

Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde, And tune the rural pipe to love,

And glowe ardurous onn the Castle steeres; I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Or fierye round the mynsterr glare; Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave

Let Brystowe stylle be made the care ; My youthful limbs I wont to lave;

Guarde ytt frommefoemenne&consumyngefyre; No torrents stain thy limpid source,

I.yche Avones streme ensyrke ytte rounde, No rocks impede thy dimpling course,

Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,

Tyll ynne one fiame all the whole worlde expyre. With white, round, polith'd pebbles spread; While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood

991. Briftowe Tragedie; or, The Detbe of Syr In myriads cleave thy crystal flood:

Charles Bawdin.
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;

CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEY.
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel and mottled par.

The feather’d songster chaunticleer Devolving from thy parent lake.

Had wounde hys bugle horne, A charming maze thy waters make,

And told the earlie villager By bow'rs of birch, and groves

of pine,

The commynge of the morne;
And hedges flower'd with eglantine. Kynge Edwarde sawe the rudie streakes
Still on thy banks, so gaily green,

Oflyght eclypse the greie;
May num'rous herds and Aocks be seen; And herde the raven's crokynge throte
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail;

Proclayme the fated daie.
And shepherds, piping in the dale;

“Thou’rt ryght,"quod hee,“ for, by the Godde, And ancient faith, that knows no gaile;

“That lyties enthron'd on hyghe, And industry, embrown’d with toil; And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepard,

“ Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine,

“ To-daie shall surelie die.” The blessings they enjoy to guard.

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

His Knyghtes dydd hymm waite; $9c. Songe to Ælla, Lorde of the Cafiel of Bry- “ Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie

Rowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, “ Hee leaves thys mortall state." under the name of Rowley.

Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe.

Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; On thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Hee journey'd to the castle-gate; Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe. As everlastynge to posteritye.

But whenne hee came, his children tvaine,

And eke hys lovynge wyfe. Whanne Dacya’s fonnes,whose hayres of bloude. Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore, redde hue

[ing due, For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. Lyche kynge-cuppes brastynge wythe the mornArraung'd ynne dreare arraie,

“O goode Syr Charles !” sayd Canterlone,

“ Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." Upponne the lethale daie, Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets More;

" Speke boldlie, manne,"layd brave Syr Charles, Than dyddst thou furioule stande,

“Whatte says thie traytour kynge?" And bie thie valyantè hande

“ I greeve to telle: Before yonne sonne Beesprengedd all the mees wythe gore,

“ Does fromme the welkinne flye, Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,

“ Hee hath uponne hys honour lworne

“ Thatt thou shalt furelie die.” Downe to the depthe of helle Thousandes of Dacyanns went;

“Wee all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; Brystowannes, rnenne of myghte,

“Of thatte I'm not affearde: Ydar'd the bloudie fyglite,

“ What bootes to lyve a little space? And actedd deeds full quent.

“ Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd. Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att reste)

" Butte telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, Thye Spryte to haunte delygliteth belie,

“ I'de fooner die to-daie Whetherri upponne the bloude-embrewedd “ Thanne lyve hys llave, as manie are, Or whare thou kennst from farre [pleyne,

“Tho' I should lyve for aie." The dyfmall crye of warre,

Thenne Canterlone hee dydde goe out,
Or feeftlommemountaynemadeof corseof fleyne; To telle the maior straite
Orr leeit the hatchedd stede,

To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
Ypraunceynge o'er the mede,

For goode Syr Charleses fate.


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