But now, retiring to thy own apartment,
Let gentle flumber close thy wakeful eyes;
Then rife refresh'd; anoint thy wearied limbs,
And with due nourishment recruit thy fpirits.
Such ceafelefs watchings will exhauft thy ftrength,
And make thy languid life a burden to thee.
Thou feeft all other friends are fled; thou art
My only folace in this dire affliction.
Should't thou forfake me too, I'm loft indeed.
O no! thy fifter never will forfake thee;
Nor only will I live, but die, with thee;
What joy could life afford a wretched woman,
Bereft of father, brother, every friend?-
But if you fo command, I will retire;
In the meanwhile compofe thyfelf to rest,
Reclin'd upon thy couch; nor let vain terrors
Roufe thee again-Thy own upbraiding confcience
Is the revengeful fiend that haunts thy breast!
THE LORD CHANCELLOR PARKER.
S father Thames pours out his plenteous urn
O'er common tracts, with speed his waters flow;
But where fome beauteous palace does adorn
His banks, the river seems to move more flow;
As if he stopp'd awhile, with confcious pride,
Nor to the ocean would purfue his race,
Till he reflect its glories in his tide,
And call the water-nymphs around to gaze.
So in Time's common flood the huddled throng
Of months and hours unheeded pass away,
Unless fome general good our joy prolong,
And mark the moments of fome festal day.
Not fair July, though Plenty clothe his fields,
Though golden funs make all his mornings fmile, Can boast of aught that fuch a triumph yields,
As that he gave a Parker to our isle.
Hail happy month! fecure of lafting fame!
Doubly diftinguish'd through the circling year:
In Rome a hero gave thee first thy name;
A patriot's birth makes thee to Britain dear.
XIVth OLYMPICK OF PINDAR.
E heavenly Graces, who prefide
O'er Minyæa's happy foil, that breeds,
Swift for the race, the fairest steeds;
And rule the land, where with a gentle tide
Your lov'd Cephifian waters glide!
you Orchomenus's towers belong, Then hear, ye goddeffes, and aid the fong.
Whatever honours fhine below,
Whatever gifts can move delight,
Or footh the ravish'd foul, or charm the fight,
To you their power of pleafing owe.
Fame, beauty, wifdom, you beftow;
Nor will the gods the facred banquet own,
Nor on the Chorus look propitious down,
If you your prefence have deny'd,
To rule the banquet, and the Chorus guide.
In heaven itself all own your happy care;
Blefs'd by your influence divine,
There all is good, and all is fair:
On thrones fublime you there illuftrious shine;
Plac'd near Apollo with the golden lyre,
You all his harmony inspire,
And warbled hymns to Jove perpetual fing,
To Jove, of Heaven the father and the king.
Now hear, Aglaia, venerable maid!
Hear thou that tuneful verfe doft love,
Euphrofyne! join your cœleftial aid,
Ye daughters of immortal Jove!
Thalia too be prefent with my lays;
Afopicus has rais'd his city's name,
And, victor in th' Olympic ftrife, may claim From you his juft reward of virtuous praife.
And thou, O Fame! this happy triumph fpread; Fly to the regions of the dead,
Through Proferpine's dark empire bear the found,
There feek Cleodamus below,
And let the pleas'd paternal fpirit know,
How on the plains of Pisa far renown'd,
His fon, his youthful fon, of matchlefs fpeed,
Bore off from all the victor's meed,
And with an olive wreath his envy'd temples crown'd.
WRITTEN AT WALLINGTON-HOUSE, IN SURRY,
ALL things were hufh'd, as noise itself were dead ;
No midnight mice ftirr'd round my filent bed;
Not e'en a gnat disturb'd the peace profound,
Dumb o'er my pillow hung my watch unwound;
No ticking death-worm told a fancy'd doom,
Nor hidden cricket chirrup'd in the room;
No breeze the casement shook, or fann'd the leaves,
Nor drops of rain fell foft from off the eaves;
Nor noify splinter made the candle weep,
But the dim watchlight feem'd itself asleep,
When tir'd I clos'd my eyes-How long I lay
In flumber wrapp'd, I list not now to say:
When hark! a fudden noife-See! open flies
The yielding door-I, ftarting, rubb'd my eyes,
Faft clos'd awhile; and as their lids I rear'd,
Full at my feet a tall thin form appear'd,
While through my parted curtains rushing broke
A light like day, ere yet the figure spoke.
Cold fweat bedew'd my limbs-Nor did I dream;
Hear, mortals, hear! for real truth's
my theme.
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