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The martial thunder's rage in vain the flood,
With ev'ry conflict of the formy flood;
More fure the reptile's little arts devour
Than wars, or waves, or Eurus' wintry pow'r.
Ye fretted pinnacles, ye fancs fublime,
Ye tow'rs that wear the motly veit of time!
Ye mally piles of old muniticence,
At once the pride of learning and defence;
Ye cloyfters pale, that length'ning to the fight,
To contemplation, step by step, invite!
Ye high-arch'd walks, where oft the whispers
Of harps unfeen have fwept the poet's ear!.
Ye temples diin, where pious duty pays
Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praife!
Lo! your
lov'd Iis, from the bord'ring vale,
With all a mother's fondnefs bids you hail
Hail, Oxford, hail of all that's good and great,
Of all that's fair, the guardian and the feat!
Nurfe of each brave purfuit, each gen'rous aim,
By truth exalted to the throne of fame!
Like Greece in fcience and in liberty,
As Athens learn'd, as Lacedemon free!

Ev'n now confefs'd to my adoring eyes,
In awful ranks thy gifted fons arife.
Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds,
Thy genuine bards immortal Chaucer leads :
His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing quire,
And beams on all around celeftial fire.
With graceful step see Addison advance,
The sweeteft child of Attic elegance :
See Chillingworth the depths of doubt explore,
And Selden ope the rolls of ancient lore:
To all but his belov'd embrace deny'd,
See Locke lead Reafon, his majestic bride:
See Hammond pierce Religion's golden mine,
And fpread the treasur'd ftores of Truth divine.
All who to Albion gave the arts of peace,
And bleft the labours plann'd of letter'd cafe;
Who taught with truth, or with perfuafion mov'd,
Who footh'd with numbers, or with fenfe im-
prov'd;

Who rang'd the pow'rs of reafon, or refin'd
All that adorn'd or humaniz'd the mind;

I fee the fable-fuited prince advance,
With lilies crown'd, the fpoils of bleeding
France,

Edward. The mufes in yon cloifter's fhade
Bound on his maiden thigh the martial blade:
Bade him the steel for British freedom draw;
And Oxford taught the decds that Creffy faw.
And fee, great father of the facred band,
The Patriot King before me feeins to ftand!
He, by the bloom of this gay vale beguil'd,
That cheer'd with lively green the fhaggy wild,
Hither of vore, forlorn, forgotten maid,
The Mufe in prattling infancy convey'd;
From Vandal rage the helplets virgin bore,
And fix'd her crade on my friendly thore;
Soon
grew the maid beneath his foft'ring hand,
Soon stream'd her blettings o'er the enlighten'd
land.

Tho' fimple was the dome, where first to dwell
She deign'd, and rude her early Saxon cell,
Lo! now the holds her ftate in fculptur'd bow'rs,
And proudly lifts to heav'n her hundred tow'rs.
'Twas Alfred firft, with letters and with laws,
Adern'd, as he advanc'd, his country's cause:
He bade relent the Briton's ftubborn foul,
And footh'd to foft fociety's controul
A rough untutor❜d age. With raptur'd eye,
Elate, he views his laurel'd progeny:
Serene he fimiles to find, that not in vain
He form'd the rudiments of learning's reign:
Himfelf he marks in each ingenuous breast,
With all the founder in the race expreft;
Confcious he fees fair freedom ftill furvive
In yon bright domes, ill-fated fugitive!
(Glorious, as when the goddess pour'd the beam
Unfully'd on his ancient diadem)

Well-pleas'd, that at his own Pierian fprings
She refts her weary feet, and plumes her wings;
That here at last she takes her deftin'd ftand,
Here deigns to linger ere fhe leaves the land.

Each priest of health, that mix'd the balmy bowl $ 59. Infeription in a Hermitage, at Anfley-Hall,

To rear frail man, and ftay the fleeting foul;
All crowd around, and echoing to the sky,
Hail, Oxford, hail with filial transport cry.

And fee yon fapient train! with lib'ral aim,
Twas theirs new plans of liberty to frame;
And on the Gothic gloom of flavith fway
To thed the dawn of intellectual day.
With mild debate each muling feature glows,
And well-weigh'd counfels mark their meaning

brows.

"Lo! thefe the leaders of thy patriot line,"
A Raleigh, Hampden, and a Somers fhine.
Thefe from the fource the bold contagion caught,
Their future fons the great example taught:
While in each youth, th'hereditary flame
Still blazes, unextinguith'd, and the fame!
Nor all the tasks of thoughtful peace engage,
'Tis thine to form the hero as the fage,

B

in Warwickshire. T. WARTON.

ENEATH this ftony roof reclin'd,

I foothe to peace my penfive mind: And, while to fhade my lowly cave, Embow'ring elms their umbrage wave; And while the inapple difh is mine, The beechen cup, unitain'd with wine: Nor heed the toys that deck the proud, I fcorn the gay licentious crowd, Within my limits, lone and ftill, The blackbird pipes in artless trill; Faft by my couch, congenial gueft, The wren has wove her molly neft; From bufy fcenes and brighter skies, To lurk with innocence the flies; Here hopes in fafe repose to dwell, Nor aught fufpects the fylvan cell.

* Alfred.

At

At morn I take my cuftom'd round,
To mark how buds yon fhrubby mound;
And ev'ry op'ning primrose count
That trimly paints my blooming mount :
Or o'er the fculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy folitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to ftray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
At eve, within yon ftudious nook,
I ope my brafs emboffed book,
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed

Of martyrs, crown'd with heav'nly meed :
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chaunt, ere I fleep, my meafur'd hymn;
And, at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.
While fuch pure joys my blifs create,
Who but would fimile at guilty state?
Who but would with his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot ?
Who but would caft his pomp away,
To take my staff and amice gray?
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?

So pure the vows which claffic duty pays
To blefs another Brunswick's rifing rays!

O Pitt, if chofen ftrains have pow'r to steal
Thy watchful breast a while from Britain's weal ;
If votive verfe, from facred Ifis fent,

Might hope to charm thy manly mind, intent
On patriot plans which ancient Freedom drew,
A while with fond attention deign to view
This ample wreath, which all th'affembled Nine
With skill united have confpir'd to twine.

Yes, guide and guardian of thy country's cause'
Thy confcious heart fhall hail with just applaufe
The duteous Mufe, whofe hafte officious brings
Her blameless off'ring to the fhrine of kings:
Thy tongue, well-tutor'd in hiftoric lore,
Can fpeak her office and her ufe of yore:
For fuch the tribute of ingenuous praise
Her harp difpens'd in Grecia's golden days,
Such were the palms in ifles of old renown,
She cull'd, to deck the guiltless monarch's crown;
When virtuous Pindar told, with Tuscan gore
How fcepter'd Hiero ftain'd Sicilia's fhore,
Or to mild Theron's raptur'd eye difclos'd
Bright vales, where fpirits of the brave repos'd:
Yet ftill beneath the throne, unbrib'd, the fat
The decent handmaid, not the flave of ftate;
Pleas'd in the radiance of the regal name,

$60. Monody; written near Stratford upon To blend the luftre of her country's fame:

Avon. T. WARTON.

AVON, thy rural views, thy paftures wild,
The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge,
Their boughs entangling with th'embattled
fedge;

Thy brink with wat're foliage quaintly fring'd,
Thy furface with reflected verdure ting'd,
Sooth me with many a penfive pleasure mild.
But while I mufe, that here the bard divine,
Whofe facred duft yon high-arch'd ailes inclofe,
Where the tall windows rife in ftately rows
Above th'embow'ring fhade,

Here firft, at Fancy's fairy circled shrine,
Of daifies py'd his infant off'ring made;
Here playful yet, in ftripling years unripe,
Fram'd of thy reeds a fhrill and artless pipe:
Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled,
As at the waving of fome magic wand;
An holy trance my charmed fpirit wings,
And awful fhapes of warriors and of kings
People the bufy mead,

Like fpectres fwarming to the wizard's hall;
And flowly pace, and point with trembling hand
The wounds ill-cover'd by the purple pall.
Before me Pity feems to ftand

A weeping mourner, fmote with anguish fore,
To fee Misfortune rend in frantic mood
His robe with regal wocs embroider'd o'er.
Pale Terror leads the vifionary band,
And fternly shakes his fceptre, dropping blood.

§ 61. On the Death of King George the Second.
T. WARTON.
So ftream the forrows that embalm the brave,
The tears that Science sheds on Glory's grave!

For, taught like Ours, the dar'd with prudent
Obedience from dependence to divide:
[pride,
With truth fevere the temper❜d partial praise;
Tho' princes claim'd her tributary lays,
Confcious, the kept her native dignity,
Bold as her flights, and as her numbers free.

And fure, if e'er the mule indulg'd her ftrains,
With juft regard to grace heroic reigns,
Where could her glance a theme of triumph ow
So dear a frame as George's trophy'd throne?
At whofe firm bafe thy ftedfaft foul afpires
To wake a mighty nation's ancient fires:
Afpires to baffle Faction's fpecious claim,
Rouze England's rage, and give her thunder aim:
Once more the main her conqu'ring banners
fweep,

Again her Commerce darkens all the deep.
Thy fix'd refolve renews each firm decree
That made, that kept of yore, thy country free.
Call'd by thy voice, nor deaf to war's alarins,
Its willing youth the rural empire arms :
Again the lords of Albion's cultur'd plains
March the firm leaders of their faithful fwains;
As erft ftout archers, from the farm or fold,
Flam'd in the van of many a baron bold.

Nor thine the pomp of índolent debate,
The war of words, the fophiftrics of state:
Nor frigid caution checks thy free design,
Nor ftops thy stream of eloquence divine:
For thine the privilege, on few bestow'd,
To feel, to think, to fpeak, for public good.
In vain Corruption calls her venal tribes;
One common caufe one common end prescribes :

Nor fear nor fraud, nor ipares or fereens the foe,
But fpirit prompts, and valour strikes the blow.

O Pitt! while honour points thy I:b'ral plan,
And o'er the Minifter exalts the man,

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Ifis congenial greets thy faithful sway,
Nor fcorns to bid a statesman grace her lay.
For 'tis not hers, by falfe connections drawn,
At fplendid Slav'ry's fordid fhrine to fawn;
Each native effort of the feeling breaft
To friends, to foes, in equal fear, fuppreft:
'Tis not for her to purchase or purfue
The phantom-favours of the cringing crew:
More ufeful toils her ftudious hours enagage,
And fairer leffons fill her fpotlefs page:
Beneath ambition, but above difgrace,
With nobler arts the forms the rifing race:
With happier tasks, and lefs refin'd pretence,
In elder times the woo'd Munificence
To rear her arched roofs in regal guife,
And lift her temples nearer to the skies;
Princes and prelates ftretch'd the focial hand
To form, diftufe, and fix, her high command:
From kings the claim'd, yet fcorn'd to feek, the
prize;

[wife.
From kings, like George, benignant, juft, and
Lo! this her genuine lore.-Nor thou refufe
This humble prefent of no partial Muse
From that calm Bow'r *, which nurs'd thy
thoughtful youth

In the pure precepts of Athenian truth:
Where first the form of British Liberty
Beam'd in full radiance on thy mufing eye;
That form, whofe mien fublime, with equal awe,
In the fame fhade unblemish'd Somers faw :
Where once (for well the lov'd the friendly grove
Which ev'ry claffic Grace had learn'd to rove)
Her whifpers wak'd fage Harrington to feign
The bleflings of her vifionary reign;

That reign, which now no more an empty theme,
Adorns Philofophy's ideal dream,

But crowns at last, beneath a George's finile,
In full reality this favour'd ifle.

Heroic champions caught the clarion's call,
And throng'd the feaft in Edward's banner'd hall;
While chiefs, like George, approv'd in worth
alone,

Unlock'd chafte Beauty's adamantine zone.
Lo! the fam'd ifle, which hails thy chofen sway,
What fertile fields her temp'rate funs difplay!
Where Property fecures the conscious fwain,
And guards, while Plenty gives, the golden grain:
Hence with ripe ftores her villages abound,
Her airy downs with fcatter'd fheep refound;
Fresh are her paftures with unceasing rills,
And future navies crown her darkfome hills.
To bear her formidable glory far,
Behold her opulence of hoarded war!
See, from her ports a thousand banners ftream;
On ev'ry coaft her vengeful lightnings gleam!
Meantime, remote from Ruin's armed hand,
In peaceful majefty her cities ftand;
Whofe fplendid domes and busy streets declare
Their firmeft fort, a king's parental care.

And O! bleft Queen, if e'er the magic pow'rs
Of warbled truth have won thy mufing hours;
Here Poefy, from awful days of yore,
Has pour'd her genuine gifts of raptur'd lore.
Mid oaken bow'rs, with holy verdure wreath'd,
In Druid-fongs her folemn fpirit breath'd:
While cunning Bards at ancient banquets fung
Of paynim foes defy'd, and trophies hung.
Here Spenfer tun'd his myftic minstrelfy,
And drefs'd in fairy robes a Queen like Thee.
Here, boldly mark'd with ev'ry living hue,
Nature's unbounded portrait Shakespeare drew:
But chief the dreadful group of human woes
The daring artist's tragic pencil chofe;
Explor'd the pangs that rend the royal breaft,
Thofe wounds that lurk beneath the tiffu'd veft!
Lo! this the land, whence Milton's mufe of fire
High foar'd, to fteal from heav'n a feraph's lyre;
And told the golden ties of wedded love

§ 62. On the Marriage of the King, 1761, to In facred Eden's amaranthine grove.

her Majefty. T. WARTON.

WHEN firft the kingdom, to thy virtues due,
Rofe from the billowy deep in diftant view;
When Albion's ifle, old Ocean's peerlefs pride,
Tow'r'd in imperial ftate above the tide;
What bright ideas of the new domain
Form'd the fair profpect of thy promis'd reign!
And well with confcious joy thy breaft might
beat,

That Albion was ordain'd thy regal feat:
Lo! this the land, where Freedom's facred rage
Has glow'd untam'd thro' many a martial age.
Here patriot Alfred, ftain'd with Danish blood,
Rear'd, on one bafe the king's, the people's good:
Here Henry's archers fram'd the stubborn bow
That laid Alanzon's haughty helmet low;
Here wak'd the flame that ftill fuperior braves
The proudest threats of Gaul's ambitious flaves:
Here Chivalry, stern school of valour old,
Her nobieft feats of knightly fame enroll'd;

Thine too, majeftic Bride, the favour'd clime,
Where Science fits enfhrin'd in roofs fublime..

O mark, how green her wood of ancient bays
O'er Ifis' marge in many a chaplet ftrays!
Thither, if haply fome diftinguifh'd flow'r
Of thefe mix'd blooms from that ambrofial bow'r,
Might catch thy glance, and rich in Nature's hue,
Entwine thy diadem with honour due;
If feemly gifts the train of Phoebus pay,
To deck imperial Hymen's feftive day,
Thither thyfelf fhall hafte, and mildly deign
To tread with nymph-like ftep the confcious plain;
Pleas'd in the mufe's nook, with decent pride,
To throw the fcepter'd pall of state aside.
Nor from the fhade fhall George be long away,
Which claims Charlotta's love, and courts her
stay.

Thefe are Britannia's praises. Deign to trace
With wrapt reflection Freedom's fav'rite race!
But tho' the gen'rous ifle, in arts and arms,
Thus ftands fupreme in Nature's choiceft charms;

Trinity College, Oxford; in which alfo Lord Somers and Sir James Harrington, author of the Oceana, were clucated.

The

Tho' George and Conqueft guard her fea-gitt | Nor fhunn'd, at penfive eve, with lonesome pacè,

throne,

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That grac'd its gorgeous festivals of yore;
Say, confcious Dome, if e'er thy marthall'd
knights

So nobly deck'd their old majestic rites
As when, high-thron'd amid thy trophy'd fhrine,
George fhone the leader of the Garter'd line?

Yet future triumphs, Windfor, ftill remain;
Still may thy bow'rs receive as brave a train:
For lo! to Britain and her favour'd Pair,
Heav'n's high command has fent a facred Heir!
Him the bold pattern of his patriot Sire
Shall fill with early fame's immortal fire:
In life's fresh fpring, ere buds the promis'd prime,
His thoughts fhall mount to virtue's meed fublime:
The patriot fire fhall catch, with fure prefage,
Each lib'ral omen of his op'ning age;
Then to thy courts fhall lead with confcious joy,
In ftripling beauty's bloom, the Princely Boy;
There firmly wreathe the Braid of heav'nly die,
True valour's badge, around his tender thigh.

Meantime, thy royal piles that rise elate
With many an antique tow'r, in maffy state,
In the young Champion's mufing mind fhall raife
Vaft images of Albion's elder days;
While, as around his eager glance explores
Thy chambers, rough with war's constructed
ftores,

Rude helms, and bruised shields, barbaric spoils
Of ancient chivalry's undaunted toils;
Amid the dusky trappings hung on high,
Young Edward's fable mail fhall ftrike his eye:
Shall fire the youth, to crown his riper years
With rival Creffys, and a new Poitiers;
On the fame wall, the fame triumphal base,
His own victorious monuments to place.
Nor can a fairer kindred title move
His emulative age to glory's love
Than Edward, laureate prince. In letter'd truth,
Oxford, fage mother, fchool'd his ftudious youth:
Her fimple inftitutes and rigid lore
The royal nurfling unreluctant bore;

The cloister's moon-light chequer'd floor to trace;
Nor fcorn'd to mark the fun, at matins due,
Stream thro' the story'd windows holy hue.
And O, Young Prince, be thine his moral
praife;

Nor feek in fields of blood his warrior bays.
War has its charms terrific. Far and wide
When stands th'embattled host in banner'd pride;
O'er the next plain when the fhrill clangors run,
And the long phalanx flathes in the fun;
When now no dangers of the dreadful day
Mar the bright fcene, nor break the firm array;
The youthful breaft, and asks the future fight ;-
Full oft, too rafhly glows with fond delight
Nor knows that Horror's form, a spectre wan,
Stalks, yet unfeen, along the gleamy van.

May no fuch rage be thine! No dazzling ray
Of fpecious fame thy ftedfaft feet betray !
Be thine domeftic glory's radiant calm,
Be thine the fceptre wreath'd with many a palm!
Be thine the throne with peaceful er blems hung,
The filver lyre to milder conqueft ftrung!

Bid rifing Arts difplay their mimic charms!
Inftead of glorious feats atchiev'd in arms,
Juft to thy country's fame, in tranquil' days
Before the public eye, in breathing brals,
Record the paft, and rouze to future praise :
Bid thy fam'd Father's mighty triumph pafs:
Swell the broad arch with haughty Cuba's fall,
And clothe with Minden's plain th'hiftoric hall.
Then mourn not, Edward's Dome, thine an-

cient boaft,

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$ 64. Ode to Sleep. T. WARTON.
N this my penfive pillow, gentle Sleep!
ON
Defcend, in all thy downy plumage dreft:
Wipe with thy wing thefe eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppies on my brealt.
O fteep my fenfes in oblivion's balm,
And footh my throbbing pulfe with lenient hand,
This tempeft of my boiling blood becalin#-
Despair grows mild at thy fupremne comminand-
Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And fadly toiling thro' the tedious night,
I feek fweet flumber, while that virgin bloomy
For ever hov'ring, haunts thy wretched fight,

Nor would the dawning day my forrows | § 66. Ode. The First of April. T. WARTON.

charm:

Flack midnight and the radiant noon, alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death ftands prepar'd, but ftill delays to strike.

$65. The Hamlet, written in Whichwood Foreft.

T. WARTON.

THE hinds how bleft, who ne'er beguil'd

To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild; Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, For fplendid care and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with flanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the fcythe in fragrant dew: The theaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midft gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's fweeteft notes they hear :
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue:

In their lone haunts and woodland rounds
They fpy the fquirrel's airy bounds;
And startle from her afhen spray,
Acrofs the glen, the foreaming jay.
Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's fequefter'd store.

ray,

For them the moon, with cloudiefs Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their weary fpirits to relieve,

The meadow's incenfe breathe at eve.
No riot mars the fimple fare

That o'er a glimm'ring hearth they fhare:
But when the curfeu's meafur'd roar
Duly, the dark'ning vallies o'er,
Has echo'd from the diftant town,
They with no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophy'd canopies, to clofe
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little fons, who fpread the bloom
Of health around the clay-built room,
Or thro' the primros'd coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-inown hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowflip-twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine;
Or haften from the fultry hill
To loiter at the shady rill;

Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest
To rob the raven's ancient neft.

Their humble porch with honied flow'rs
The curling woodbine's shade embow'rs:
From the trim garden's thymy mound
Their bees in bufy fwarms refound:
Nor fell Difeafe, before his time,
Haftes to confume life's golden prime:
But when their temples long have wore
The filver crown of treffes hoar;
As ftudious ftill calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flow'ry turf they fleep.

WITH dalliance rude young Zephyr woes
Coy May. Full oft with kind excuse
The boift'rous boy the fair denies,
Or, with a scornful fmile complies.
Mindful of difafter past,

And shrinking at the northern blast,
The fleety ftorm returning still,
Reluctant comes the timid Spring.
The morning hoar and ev'ning chill;
Scarce a bee, with airy ring,

Murmurs the bloffom'd boughs around,
That clothe the garden's fouthern bound:
Scarce a fickly ftraggling flow'r
Decks the rough caftle's rifted tow'r :
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled fteeps!
O'er the field of waving broom
Slowly shoots the golden bloom:
And, but by fits the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the tranfitory gale.
While from the fhrubb'ry's naked maze,
Where the vegetable blaze

Of Flora's brightest 'broid'ry fhone,
Ev'ry chequer'd charm is flown;
Save that the lilac hangs to view
Its bursting gems in clusters blue.
Scant along the ridgy land

The beans their new-born ranks expand:
The fresh-turn'd foil with tender blades
Thinly the fprouting barley fhades:
Fringing the foreft's devious edge,
Half-rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge;
Or to the diftant eye difplays
Weakly green its budding fprays. "

The swallow, for a moment feen,
Skims in hafte the village green:
From the grey moor on feeble wing,
The fcreaming plovers idly spring:
The butterfly, gay-painted foon,
Explores a while the tepid noon,
And fondly trufts its tender dies
To fickle funs and flatt'ring fkies.

Fraught with a tranfient, frozen show'r,
If a cloud fhould haply lowr,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a fudden is the lark;
But when gleams the fun again
O'er the pearl-befprinkled plain,
And from behind his wat'ry veil
Looks thro' the thin defcending hail,
She mounts, and, leff'ning to the fight,
Salutes the blythe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
'Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.
Where in venerable rows
Widely-waving oaks inclofe
The moat of yonder antique hall,
Swarm the rooks with clamorous call;
And to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nefts anew.
Mufing thro' the lawny park,
The lonely poet loves to mark

How

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