Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry), And the famed river's empty shores admire, With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys; Oh, could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine! See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle; Or, when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments To nobler tastes and more exalted scents: E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats, Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride : Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies. Immortal glories in my mind revive, An amphitheatre's amazing height Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires, Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand. While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued, Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow, Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores, The reddening orange and the swelling grain; Oh Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; Eased of her load, Subjection grows more light, And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of Nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in field of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiades shine: "Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mount ains smile. PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII. THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, When in the sultry glebe I faint, Though in the paths of death I tread, Though in a bare and rugged way, AN ODE. How are thy servants bless'd, oh Lord! How sure is their defence! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence. In foreign realms, and lands remote, Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, Think, oh my soul, devoutly think, Confusion dwelt on every face, When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art. Yet then from all my griefs, oh lord! Whilst in the confidence of prayer My soul took hold on thee. For though in dreadful whirls we hung I knew thou wert not slow to hear, The storm was laid, the winds retired, The sea, that roar'd at thy command, In midst of dangers, fears, and death, And praise thee for thy mercies pass'd, |