Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd,
Himself in fome diviner mood,
Retiring, fate with her alone,

And plac'd her on his fapphire throne,
The whiles, the vaulted shrine around
Seraphic wires were heard to found,
Now fublimeft triumph fwelling;
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And fhe, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic notes aloud:

And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy fubject life was born?
The dangerous paffions kept aloof,
Far from the fainted growing woof:
But near it fate ecftatic Wonder,
Liftening the deep applauding thunder:
And Truth, in funny veft array`d,
By whose the Tarfol's eyes were made;
All the fhadowy tribes of Mind,
In braided dance their murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted powers,
Who feed on heaven's ambrofial flowers.
Where is the Bard, whose foul can now
Its high prefuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him defign'd?
High on fome cliff, to heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude accefs, of profpect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange fhades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its fprings unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies fpread.

I view that oak, the fancied glades among.

By which a Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

Nigh fpher'd in heaven its native ftrains could hear:

On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung;

Thither oft his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle fhades retreating,

With many a vow from Hope's afpiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;
In vain-Such blifs to one alone,

Of all the fons of foul was known,

And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers,

Or curtain'd clofe fuch scene from every future

Thou, who fit'st a smiling bride
fide,

Gentleft of fky-born forms, and best ador'd:
Who oft with fongs, divine to hear,
Win'ft from his fatal grafp the fpear,

And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodlefs fword!
Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bofom bare art found,
Pleading for him the youth who finks to ground:
See Mercy, fee, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy fhrine my country's genius stands,
And decks thy altar ftill, though pierc'd with many
a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom ev'n our joys provoke,

The fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our ifle his prey;

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,

O'er took him on his blasted road,

And flopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.
I fee recoil his fable steeds,

That bore him swift to favage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;
O Maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,
To thee we build a rofeate bower.

Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and fhare our monarch's throne !

ODE TO LIBERTY.

W

STROPHE.

HO fhall awake the Spartan fife,

And call in folemn founds to life,
The youths, whofe locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in fullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue thedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alceus, fancy bleft,

Shall fing the fword in myrtles dreft,

At Wisdom's fhrine a while its flame concealing, (What place fo fit to seal a deed renown'd ?)

Till the her brightest lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound!

Yet, ev'n where'er the least appear'd,
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, midft the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They faw by what efcap'd the ftorm,
How wondrous rofe her perfect form;
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty mafter pour'd his foul;
For funny Florence, seat of art,
Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,
Till they, whom science lov'd to name,

(0, who could fear it?) quench'd her flame. And, lo, an humbler relic laid

In jealous Pifa's olive shade!

See fmall Marino joins the theme,
Though leaft, not laft in thy esteem ;
Strike, louder ftrike th' ennobling ftrings
To thofe, whofe merchants fons were kings:
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride:
Hail port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure :
Nor e'er her former pride relate,
To fad Liguria's bleeding state.

Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I feek,
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rouz'd in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled.)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those to whom thy ftork is dear:
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whofe crown a British queen refus'd!
The magick works, thou feel't the strains,
One holier name alone remains;
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, Nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique ftory, Saw Britain link'd to his now adverfe ftrand, No fea between, nor cliff fublime and hoary, He país'd with unwet feet through all our land. To the blown Baltic then, they say, The wild waves found another way, Where Orcas bowls, his wolfish mountains rounding;

Till all the banded weft at once 'gan rife,

A wild wide storm ev'n Nature's felf confounding, Withering her giant fons with ftrange uncouth furprize.

This pillar'd earth fo firm and wide,

By winds and inward labours torn,

In thunders dread was push'd aside,

And down the fhouldering billows borne.

And fee, like gems, her laughing train,
The little ifles on every fide,

Mona †, once hid from those who search the main,
Where thousand elfin fhapes abide,

And Wight who checks the westering tide,

For thee confenting heav'n has each bestow'd, A fair attendant on her sovereign pride:

To thee this bleft divorce the ow'd,

For thou haft made her vales thy lov'd, thy laft abode !

SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midft the green navel of our isle,
Thy fhrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-enforcing Gooddess, stood I
There of the painted natives' feet
Were wont thy form celeftial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treffed Dane,
Or Roman's felf o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heav'n-left age it fell,

'T were hard for modern fong to tell.
Yet ftill, if truth those beams infufe,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands bleft,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,

This tradition is mention'd by several of our old hiftorians. Some naturalifts too have endeavour'd to support the probability of the tact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent difpofition of the two oppofite coafts. I do not remember that any poetical ufe has been hitherto made of it.

There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mermaid becoming enamour'd of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walk'd on the fhore, and opened her paffion to him, but was receiv'd with a coldness, occafioned by his horror and furprize at her appearance. This however was fo mifconftrued by the fea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, the punifh'd the whole inland, by covering it with a mift, fo that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arriv'd at it, but wandered up and down the fea, or were on a fudden wrecked upon its cliffs. L

The chiefs who fill our Albion's story, In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory, Hear that conforted Druids fing Their triumphs to th' immortal string. How may the poet now unfold, What never tongue or numbers told? How learn delighted, and amaz'd, What hands unknown that fabric rais'd? Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes, In Gothic pride it seems to rife! Yet Grecia's graceful orders join, Majestic, through the mix'd defign; The fecret builder knew to chufe, Each fphere-found gem of richest hues : Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains, When nearer funs emblaze its veins; There on the walls the Patriot's fight May ever hang with fresh delight, And, gray'd with fome prophetic rage, Read Albion's fame through every age. Ye forms divine, ye laureate band, That near her inmost altar stand! Now foothe her, to her blissful train Blithe Concord's focial form to gain: Concord, whofe myrtle wand can steep Ev'n Anger's blood-fhot eyes in sleep : Before whofe breathing bofom's balm, Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm; Her let our fires and matrons hoar Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore, Our youths, enamour'd of the fair, Play with the tangles of her hair, Till, in one loud applauding found, The nations fhout to her around, O, how fupremely art thou bleft, Thou, Lady, thou fhalt rule the weft!

D E

Written

To a Lady, on the Death of Colonel CHARLES
Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy.
May, 1745.

WHILE, loft to all his former mirth,

Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While ftain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unfeemly from his fea-green hair

The wreaths of chearful May:

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:

Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,

And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall blefs the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That facred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms fhall fit at evc,

And bend the penfive head;
And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave their fainted rest:
And, half-reclining on his fpear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Creffy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And with th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bofom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted treffes madly fpread,
To every fod which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er fhall the leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign reftor'd:
Till William seek the fad retreat,
And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated sword.

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic fway,

Our youth shall fix fome feftive day,
His fullen fhrines to burn:

But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres,
What founds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bleft return!

O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind!
Orife, and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy train :
The British lion, Goddefs fweet,
Lies ftretch'd on earth to kifs thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.

Let others court thy tranfient fmile,
But come to grace thy western ifle,

By warlike Honour led!

And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

THE MANNERS.

F

AN ODE.

AREWELL, for clearer ken defign'd;
The dim-difcover'd tracts of mind:
Truths wh.cl., from action's paths ret.r'd,
My filent fearch in vain requir'd!
No more my fail that deep explores,
No more I fearch thofe magic fhores,
What regions part the world of foul,
Or whence thy streams, Op.nion, roll:
If e'er i round fuch fairy field,
Some power impart the Ipear and shield,
At which the wizard paffions fly,
By which the giant follies die!

Farewell the porch, whofe roof is feen,
Arch'd with th' enlivening clive's green;
Where Science, prank'd in tiffued veit,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy dreit,
Comes like a bride, to tri n array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's fhade!

Youth of the quick uncheated fight,
Thy walks, Obfervance, more invite !
O thou, who lov'st that ampler range,
Where life's wide profpes round thee charge,
And, with her mingled fons ally'd,
Throw'ft the prattling page afide:
To me in converse sweet impart,
To read in man the native heart,
To learn, where Science füre is found,
From Nature as the lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious love
Reverse the leffons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Haft bleft this focial science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent fpeil,
Not vain she finds the charmful talk,
In pageant quaint, în motley mask,
Behold, before her mufing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rife;

While, ever varying as they pass,
To fome Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-rob'd maid combine,
And those the laughing fatyrs join!
But who is he whom now the views,
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the raffions nurs'd; I greet
The comic fock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whose name is known
To Britain's favour'd ifle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit,

'There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,
(Whofe jewels in his crifped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy fide!
By old Miletus, who fo long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong,
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern fhades:

By him †, whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's luft of fame;

Whose tales ev'n now, with echoes sweet,
Caftilia's Moorish hills repeat:

Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's fhore,
Wo drew the fad Sicilian maid,

By virtues in her fire betray'd:

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy feal!
Let fome retreating Cynic find

Thofe oft-turn'd fcrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree

To rove thy fcene-full world with thee!

THE

W

PASSIONS.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

HEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece the fung, The Paffions oft, to hear her thell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Difturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd. Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, infpir'd, From the fupporting myrtles round They fnatch'd her inftruments of found, And as they oft had heard apart Sweet leffons of her forceful art, Each, for madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expreffive power.

Alluding to the Milcfian Tales, fome of the earliest romances.

+ Cervantes.

Montieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.