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Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead, Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth eachev'ning meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads, Where Echo walks steep hills among, List'ning to the shepherd's song. Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ: Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh! Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels and the house of wo, To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad might some Virgin comes, With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek; . . Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow’rs, Where, to avoid cold winter's show’rs, The naked beggar shiv'ring lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles lest the tott'ring wall Should on her sleeping infants fall. Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire; I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat! The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear; “Give me another horse!” I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Whence is this rage? What spirit, say, To battle hurries me away "Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest wars

There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead:
Where giant Terrour stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield !
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun;
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss. -
When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold,
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm, enthusiastic Maid,
Without thy pow'rful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line;
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd strain,
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing.
O hear our pray'r O hither come
From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb!
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling grave;
O Queen of numbers! once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly strike the sounding lyre,

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May rise above the rhyming throng,
And with some new unequall'd song
O'er all our list'ning passions reigu,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, *
With terrour shake, with pity move,
Rouse with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign to attend his ev'ming walk,
With him in groves and grottoes talk:
Teach him to scorn with frigid art
Yeebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
Like lightning let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critics' studied laws:
O let each Muse's fame increase ?
O bid Britannia rival Greece l WARTON.

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Hence loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn, -
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sighs unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
And the night raven sings;
There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks, -
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n yelep'd Euphrosyne, . . *
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, -
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some Sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,

Zephyr, with Aurora playing, “ * * * * * * * As he met her once a maying, ... . . . . There on beds of vi'lets blue, And fresh blown roses wash'd in dew, Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. . . . . Haste thee Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, - - is Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides; Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe, to . . And in thy right hand lead with thee, The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, .. To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free: To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tow'r in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn. Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,

Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight;
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his sithe, ... -->
And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale /~~ --
Under the hawthorn in the dale. --

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, ‘’ While the landscape round it measures, .

Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The lab’ring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied;
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide:
Tow’rs and battlements it sees
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their sav'ry dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses:
And then in haste her bow'r she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tann'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,

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