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Now, London's busy confines round,

While I, a true and loyal swain, By Kensington's imperial towers,

My fair Olympia's gentle reign From Highgate's rough descent profound,

Through all the varying seasons own. Essexian heaths, or Kentish bowers,

Her genius still my bosom warms: Where'er I pass, I see approach

No other maid for me hath cbarms,
Some rural statesman's eager coach

Or I have eyes for her alone.
Hurried by senatorial cares :
Where rural nymphs (alike within,
Aspiring courtly praise to win)

Debate their dress, reform their airs.
Say, what can now the country boast,

1. O Drake, thy footsteps to detain,

Once more I join the Thespian choir, When peevish winds and gloomy frost

And taste the inspiring fount again: The sunshine of the temper stain ?

O parent of the Grecian lyre, Say, are the priests of Devon grown

Admit me to thy powerful strainFriends to this tolerating throne,

And lo! with ease my step invades Champions for George's legal right?

The pathless vale and opening shades, Have general freedom, equal law,

Till now I spy her verdant seat: Won to the glory of Nassau

And now at large I drink the sound, Each bold Wessexian 'squire and knight?

While these her offspring, listening round,

By turns her melody repeat.
I doubt it much; and guess at least
That when the day, which made us free,

I see Anacreon smile and sing,
Shall next return, that sacred feast

His silver tresses breathe perfume; Thou better may'st observe with me.

His cheek displays a second spring With me the sulphurous treason old

Of roses taught by wine to bloom. A far inferior part shall hold

Away, deceitful cares, away, In that glad day's triumphal strain ;

And let me listen to his lay; And generous William be rever'd,

Let me the wanton pomp enjoy, Nor one untimely accent heard

While in smooth dance the light-wing'd hours Of James or bis ignoble reign.

Lead round his lyre its patron powers,

Kind laughter and convivial joy.
Then, while the Gascon's fragrant wine
With modest cups our joy supplies,

Broke from the fetters of his native land,
We'll truly thank the power divine

Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords, Who bade the chief, the patriot rise ;

With louder impulse and a threatening hand Rise from heroic ease (the spoil

The Lesbian patriot' smiles the sounding chords: Dae, for his youth's Herculean toil,

Ye wretches, ye perfidious train, From Belgium to her saviour son)

Ye cursd of gods and free-born men, Rise with the same unconquer'd zeal

Ye murderers of the laws, For our Britannia's injur'd weal,

Though now ye glory in your lust, Her laws defac'd, her shrines o'erthrown.

Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust,

Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dread. He came. The tyrant from our shore,

ful cause. Like a forbidden demon, fled; Add to eternal exile bore

II. Pontific rage and vassal dread.

But lo, to Sappho's melting airs There sunk the mouldering Gothic reign :

Descends the radiant queen of love: Nes years came forth, a liberal train,

She smiles, and asks what fonder cares Call'd by the people's great decree.

Her suppliant's plaintive measures move: That day, my friend, let blessings crown:

Why is my faithful maid distress'd ? -Fill, to the demigod's renown

Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast ! From whom thou hast that thou art free.

Say, flies he?-Soon he shall pursue:

Shuns he thy gifts?-He soon shall give:
Then, Drake, (for wherefore should we part Slights he thy sorrows? ---He shall grieve,
The public and the private weal?)

And soon to all thy wishes bow.
In ruas to her who sways thy heart,
Fair bealth, glad fortune, will we deal.

But, O Melpomene, for whom
Whether Aglaia's blooming check,

Awakes thy golden shell again? Or the soft omaments that speak

What mortal breath shall e'er presume So eloquent in Daphne's smile,

To echo that unbounded strain ? Whether the piercing lights that fly

Majestic in the frown of years, From the dark heaven of Myrto's eye,

Behold, the man of Thebes 2 appears: Haply thy fancy then beguile.

For some there are, whose mighty frame

The hand of Jove at birth endow'd For so it is. Thy stubborn breast,

With hopes that mock the gazing crowd;
Though touch'd by many a slighter wound,

As eagles drink the noon-tide flame,
Hath no full conquest yet confessd,
Nor the one fatal charmer found.

I Alcæus. 2 Pindar.


AKENSIDE'S POEMS. While the dim raven beats her weary wings, But when from Envy and from Death to claim And clamours far below.-Propitious Muse,

A hero bleeding for his native land; While I so late unlock thy purer springs, When to throw incense on the vestal flame And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse, Of Liberty my genius gives command, Wilt thou for Albion's sons around

Nor Theban voice nor Lesbian lyre (Ne'er hadst thou audience more renown'd) From thee, O Muse! do I require; Thy charming arts employ,

While my presaging mind, As when the winds from shore to shore

Conscious of powers she never knew, Through Greece thy lyre's persuasive language Astonish'd grasps at things beyond her view, bore,

Nor by another's fate submits to be confin'd. Till towns and isles and seas return'd the vocal joy?


Yet then did Pleasure's lawless throng,

Oft rushing forth in loose attire,
Thy virgin dance, thy graceful song,

Pollute with impious revels dire.
O fair, O chaste, thy echoing shade

May no foul discord here invade:
Nor let thy strings one accent move,

Say, Townshend, what can London beast
Except what Earth's untroubled ear
'Mid all her social tribes may hear,

To pay thee for the pleasures lost,
And Heaven's unerring throne approve.

The health to day resign'd;
When Spring from this her favourite seat

Bade Winter hasten his retreat,
Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat

And met the western wind ?
The fairest flowers of Pindus glow;
The vine aspires to crown thy seat,
And myrtles round thy laurel grow:

Oh! knew'st thou how the balmy air,
Thy strings adapt their varied strain

The Sun, the azure heavens prepare
To every pleasure, every pain,

To heal thy languid frame;
Which mortal tribes were born to prove;

No more would noisy courts engage,
And straight our passions rise or fall,

In vain would lying Faction's rage
As at the wind's imperious call

Thy sacred leisure claim.
The ocean swells, the billows move.

Oft I look'd forth, and oft admir'd;
When Midnight listens o'er the slumbering Earth, Till with the studious volume tird

Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear: I sought the open day;
When Morning sends her fragrant breezes forth, “ And sure," I cry'd, “the rural gods
With airy murmurs touch my opening ear, Expect me in their green abodes,
And ever watchful at thy side,

And chide my tardy stay."
Let Wisdom's awful suffrage guide
The tenour of thy lay:

But, ah! in vain my restless feet
To her of old by Jove was given

Trac'd every silent shady seat
To judge the various deeds of Earth and Heaven; Which knew their forms of old :
'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway. Nor Naiad by her fountain laid,

Nor Wood-nymph tripping through her glade,

Did now their rites unfold:
Oft as, to well-earn'd ease resign'd,

Whether to nurse some infant oak
I quit the maze where Science toils,
Do thou refresh my yielding mind

They turn the slowly-tinkling bruok,

And catch the pearly showers,
With all thy gay, delusive spoils,

Or brush the mildew from the woods,
But, О indulgent! come not nigh
The busy steps, the jealous eye

Or paint with noon-tide beams the buds,
Of wealthy Care or gainful Age ;

Or breathe on opening flowers.
Whose barren souls thy joys disdain,
And hold as foes to Peason's reign

Such rites, which they with Spring renew,
Whome'er thy lovely works engage.

The eyes of Care can never view;

And care hath long been mine:
When Friendship and when letter'd Mirth

And hence offended with their guest,
Haply partake my sinple board,

Since grief of love my soul oppress’d,
Then let thy blameless hand call forth

They hide their toils divine.
The music of the Teian chord.
Or if invok'd at softer hours,

But soon shall thy enlivening tongue
0! seek with me the happy bowers

This heart, by dear affliction wrung,
That hear Olympia's gentle tongue;

With noble hope inspire:
To Beauty link'd with Virtue's train,

Then will the sylvan powers again
To Love devoid of jealous pain,

Receive me in their genial train,
There let the Sapphic lute be strung.

And listen to my lyre.

Beneath yon Dryad's lonely shade

See the green space: on either hand A rustic altar shall be paid,

Enlarg'd it spreads around : Of tarf with laurel fram'd:

See, in the midst she takes her stand, And thoi the inscription wilt approve;

Where one old oak his awful shade “ This for the peace which, lost by Love,

Extends o'er half the lerel mead,
By Friendship was reclaim'd."

Enclos'd in woods profound.
Hark! how through many a melting note

She now prolongs her lays:

How sweetly down the void they float! ODE XV.

The breeze their magic path attends: TO THE EVENING STAR.

The stars shine out: the forest bends:

The wakeful heifers gaze.
TO NIGHT retird the queen of Heaven
With young Endymion strays:

Whoe'er thou art, whom chance may bring

To this sequester'd spot,
And now to Hesper is it given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,

If then the plaintive syren sing,
Till she shall to her lamp supply

Oh! softly tread beneath her bower,

And think of Heaven's disposing power, A stream of lighter rays.

Of man's uncertain lot.
O Hesper! while the starry throng

Oh! think, o'er all this mortal stage,
With awe thy path surrounds,

What mournful scenes arise :
Oh! listen to my suppliant song,

What ruin waits on kingly rage: If haply now the vocal sphere

How often Virtue dwells with Woe: Can suffer thy delighted ear

How many griefs from knowledge flow : To stoop to mortal sounds.

How swiftly pleasure flies. So may the bridegroom's genial strain

O sacred bird, let me at eve, Tbee still invoke to shine:

Thus wandering all alone, So may the bride's unmarried train

Thy tender counsel oft receive, To Hymen chant their fattering vow,

Bear witness to thy pensive airs, Sall that his lucky torch may glow

And pity Nature's common cares With lustre pure as thine.

Till I forget my own.

Far other vows must I prefer

To thy indulgent power,
Alas! but now I paid my tear
On fair Olympia's virgin tomb:
And lo! from thence, in quest I roam

Of Philomela's bower.

Propitious send thy golden ray,

Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm :
But lead where Music's healing charm

May soothe afflicted love.


TO CALEB HARDINGE, M. D. With sordid Aoods the wintry urn'

Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green
Her naked hill the Dryads mourn,

No longer a poetic scene.
No longer there thy raptur'd eye
The beauteous forms of earth or sky

Surveys as in their author's mind :
And London shelters from the year
Those whom thy social hours to share

The Attic Muse design’d.
From Hampstead's airy summit me,

Her guest, the city shall behold,
What day the people's stern decree

To unbelieving kings is told,
When common men (the dread of Fame)
Adjudg'd as one of evil name,

Before the Sun, the anointed head.
Then seek thou too the pious town,
With no unworthy cares to crown

That evening's awful shade.

To them, by many a grateful song

lo happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or fixd, while Philomela talk'd,

Beneath yon copses stood.

Nor seldom, where the beachen boughs

That roofless tower invade,
We come while her enchanting Muse.
The radiant Moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compellid,

She fled the solemn shade.

But hark! I hear her liquid tone.

Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marle with moss o'ergrown,
Torougb yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthors choke the winding lane

Which leads to her retreat.

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From heavenly wrath will save the land;

For, taught of Heaven, the sacred Nine Nor ask what rites our pardon gain,

Persuasive numbers, forms divine, Nor how his potent sounds restrain

To mortal sense impart: The thunderer's lifted hand.

They best the soul with glory fire;

They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire; No, Hardinge: peace to church and state !

And high o'er Fortune's rage enthrone tbe fixed heart. That evening, let the Muse give law: While I anew the theme relate

Nor less prevailing is their charm Which my first youth enamour'd saw.

The vengeful bosoin to disarm; Then will I oft explore thy thought,

To melt the proud with human woe, What to reject which Locke hath taught,

And prompt unwilling tears to flow. What to pursue in Virgil's lay:

Can wealth a power like this afford ? Till Hope ascends to loftiest things,

Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's sword, Nor envies demagogues or kings

An equal empire claim? Their frail and vulgar sway.

No, Hastings. Thou my words will own:

Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath know; O! vers'd in all the human frame,

Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble nadie. Lead thou where'er my labour lies,

The Muse's awful art, And English Fancy's eager flame

And the blest function of the poet's tongue, To Grecian purity chastise:

Ne'er shalt thou blush to honour; to assert While hand in hand, at Wisdom's shrine,

From all that scorned Vice or slavish Fear hath sung. Beauty with Truth I strive to jo'p,

Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings And grave assent with glad applause;

Warbling at will in Pleasure's myrtle bower; To paint the story of the soul,

Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings And Plato's visions to control

By Aattering minstrels paid in evil hour, By Verulamian laws.

Move thee to spuru the heavenly Muse's reigu.

A ditlerent strain,

And other themes,

From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams,

(Thou well canst witness) meet the purged ear: ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY.

Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell
Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear;

To hear the sweet instructress tell
Come then, tell me, sage divine,

(While men and heroes throng'd around) Is it an offence to own

How life its noblest use may find, That our bosoms e'er incline

How well for freedom be resign'd;
Toward immortal Glory's throne?

And how, by Glory, Virtue shall be crown'd,
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,

So can Fancy's dream rejoice,

Such was the Chian father's strain So conciliate Reason's choice,

To many a kind domestic train, As one approving word of her impartial voice.

Whose pious hearth and genial bow!

Had cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul : If to spurn at noble praise

When, every hospitable rite Be the passport to thy Heaven,

With equal bounty to requite, Follow thou those gloomy ways;

He struck his magic strings; No such law to me was given,

And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth, Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me

And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth, Faring like my friends before me;

And fill'd their musing hearts with vast beroic thing». Nor an holier place desire Than Timoleon's arms acquire,

Now oft, where happy spirits dwell,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.

Where yet he tunes his charming shell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The Genius of bis country stands.

To listening gods he makes him known,

That man divine, by whom were sown

The seeds of Grecian fame:

Who first the race with freedom fir'd;

From whom Lycurgus Sparta's sons inspir'd;
From whom Platæan palms and Cyprian trophies

came. 1.

O noblest, happiest age ! The wise and great of every clime,

When Aristides rul'd, and Cimon fought; Through all the spacious walks of Time,

When all the generous fruits of Homer's page Where'er the Muse her power display'd,

Exulting Pindar saw to full perfection brought. With joy have listen'd and obey'd.

O Pindar, oft shalt thou be hail'd of me:

Not that Apollo fed thee froin his shrine; · Verulam gave one of his titles to Francis Bacon, Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee; Novum Organum.

Nor yet that, studious of thy notes divine,


Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng: But here, where Freedom's equal throne
But that thy song

To all her valiant sons is known;
Was proud to unfold

Where all are conscious of her cares,
What thy base rulers trembled to behold;

And each the power, that rules him, shares; Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell

Here let the Bard, whose dastard tongue The deeds of Athens and the Persian shame:

Leaves public arguments unsung, Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.

Bid public praise farewell: But thou, O faithful to thy fame,

Let him to fitter climes remove, The Muse's law didst rightly know;

Far from the hero's and the patriot's love, That who would animate his lays,

And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.
And other minds to virtue raise,
Must feel his own with all her spirit glow.

O Hastings, not to all

Can ruling Heaven the same endowments lend : Are there, approv'd of later times,

Yet still doth Nature to her offspring call, Whose verse adorn'd a tyrant's' crimes ?

That to one general weal their different powers Who saw majestic Rome betray'd,

they bend, And lent the imperial ruffian aid?

Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine Alas! not one polluted bard,

Inform the bosom of the Muse's son; No, not the strains that Mincius heard,

Thongh with new honours the patrician's line Or Tibur's hills reply'd,

Advance from age to age; yet thus alone Dare to the Muse's ear aspire;

They win the suffrage of impartial Fame. Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre,

The poet's name

He best shall prove, With Freedom's ancient notes their shameful task

Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move. they hide.

But thee, O progeny of heroes old, Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands,

Thee to severer toils thy fate requires : Amid the domes of modern hands:

The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould, Ainid the toys of idle state,

The grateful country of thy sires, How simply, how severely great!

Thee to sublimer paths demand; Then turn, and, while each western clime

Sublimer than thy sires could trace,
Presents her tuneful sons to Time,

Or thy own Edward teach his race,
So mark thou Milton's name;

Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.
And add, “Thus differs from the throng
The spirit which inform’d thy awful song, (fame."

Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's

From rich domains and subject farms,
Yet hence barbaric Zeal

They led the rustic youth to arms;
His memory with unholy rage pursues;

And kings their stern achierements fear'd; While from these arduous cares of public weal While private Strife their banners rear'd. She bids each bard begone, and rest him with his But loftier scenes to thee are shown, Muse.

Where Empire's wide-establish'd throne O fool! to think the man, whose ample mind

No private master fills: Must grasp at all that yonder stars survey; Where, long foretold, the people reigns : Must join the noblest forms of every kind,

Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains;
The world's most perfect image to display, And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.
Can e'er his country's majesty behold,
Unmov'd or cold!

Here be it thine to calm and guide
O fool! to deem

The swelling democratic tide;
That be, whose thought must visit every theme, To watch the state's uncertain frame,
Whose heart minst every strong emotion know And bafile Faction's partial aim:
Inspir'd by Nature, or by Fortune taught;

But chiefly, with determin'd zeal,
That he, if haply some presumptuous foe,

To quell that servile band, who kneel With false ignoble science fraught,

To Freedom's banish'd foes ; Shall spurn at Freedom's faithful band;

That monster, which is daily found That he their dear defence will shun,

Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound; Or hide their glories from the Sun,

Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows. Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand ! IV.

"Tis highest Heaven's command, I care not that in Arno's plain,

That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue; Or on the sportive banks of Seine,

That what ensnares the heart should maim the From public themes the Muse's quire

hand, Content with polish'd ease retire.

And Virtue's worthless foes be false to Glory too. Where priests the studious head command,

But look on Freedom. See, through every age, Where tyrants bow the warlike hand

What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd! To vile Ambition's aim,

What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage, Say, what can public themes afford,

Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd! Save venal honours to an hateful lord, [Fame? For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains Reserv'd for angry Heaven, and scorn'd of honest

Of happy swains,
Which now resound

[bound, 1 Octavianus Cæsar,

Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures

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