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ON LYRIC POETRY.
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,
Or I have eyes for her alone.
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 see Anacreon smile and sing,
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.
Broke from the fetters of his native land,
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:
And soon to all thy wishes bow.
But, O Melpomene, for whom
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;
As eagles drink the noon-tide flame,
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,
TO THE HON. CHARLES TOWNSHEND:
FROM THE COUNTRY.
Say, Townshend, what can London beast
To pay thee for the pleasures lost,
The health to day resign'd;
Bade Winter hasten his retreat,
And met the western wind ?
Oh! knew'st thou how the balmy air,
The Sun, the azure heavens prepare
To heal thy languid frame;
No more would noisy courts engage,
In vain would lying Faction's rage
Thy sacred leisure claim.
Oft I look'd forth, and oft admir'd;
Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear: I sought the open day;
And chide my tardy stay."
But, ah! in vain my restless feet
Trac'd every silent shady seat
Nor Wood-nymph tripping through her glade,
Did now their rites unfold:
Whether to nurse some infant oak
They turn the slowly-tinkling bruok,
And catch the pearly showers,
Or brush the mildew from the woods,
Or paint with noon-tide beams the buds,
Or breathe on opening flowers.
Such rites, which they with Spring renew,
The eyes of Care can never view;
And care hath long been mine:
And hence offended with their guest,
Since grief of love my soul oppress’d,
They hide their toils divine.
But soon shall thy enlivening tongue
This heart, by dear affliction wrung,
With noble hope inspire:
Then will the sylvan powers again
Receive me in their genial train,
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,
Enclos'd in woods profound.
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.
Whoe'er thou art, whom chance may bring
To this sequester'd spot,
If then the plaintive syren sing,
Oh! softly tread beneath her bower,
And think of Heaven's disposing power, A stream of lighter rays.
Of man's uncertain lot.
Oh! think, o'er all this mortal stage,
What mournful scenes arise :
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,
Of Philomela's bower.
Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:
May soothe afflicted love.
TO CALEB HARDINGE, M. D. With sordid Aoods the wintry urn'
Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green
No longer a poetic scene.
Surveys as in their author's mind :
The Attic Muse design’d.
Her guest, the city shall behold,
To unbelieving kings is told,
Before the Sun, the anointed head.
That evening's awful shade.
To them, by many a grateful song
lo happier seasons vow'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beachen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I hear her liquid tone.
Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Which leads to her retreat.
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
To hear the sweet instructress tell
(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;
And how, by Glory, Virtue shall be crown'd,
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,
Where yet he tunes his charming shell,
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;
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
To all her valiant sons is known;
Where all are conscious of her cares,
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.
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,
Or thy own Edward teach his race,
Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.
From rich domains and subject farms,
They led the rustic youth to arms;
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;
Here be it thine to calm and guide
The swelling democratic tide;
But chiefly, with determin'd zeal,
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,
[bound, 1 Octavianus Cæsar,
Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures