((PERSIAN ECLOGUES. Written originally for the ENTERTAINMENT OF THE Ladies pf TAURIS. And now first translated, &c. LONDON: Printed for J. Roberts, in ^Warwick-Lane. 1742. THE PREFACE. It is with the Writings of Makind, in some Measure, as with their Complexions or their Dress, each Nation hath a Peculiarity in all these, to distinguish it from the rest of the World. )) ((ECLOGUE the FIRST. SELIM; or, the Shepherd's Moral. SCENE, a Valley near ^Bagdat. TIME, the Morning. )) Ye ^Persian Maids, attend your Poet's Lays, And hear how Shephers pass their golden Days: Not all are blest, whom Fortune's Hand sustains With wealth in Courts, nor all that haunts the Plains: Well may your Hearts believe the Truths I tell, "TisVirtue makes the Bliss, where'er we dwell. (( hic desunt multa ))

VERSES + HUMBLY ADDRESS'D + TO + Sir THOMAS HANMER. + On his EDITION of + Shakespear's WORKS. + By a GENTLEMAN of OXFORD. ((SIR,)) WHILE, own'd by You, with Smiles the Muse surveys Th' expected Triumph of her sweetest Lays: While, strech'd at Ease, she boasts your Guardian Aid, Secure, and happy in her sylvan Shade: Excuse her Fears, who scarce a Verse bestows, In just Remembrance of the Debt she owes; With conscious Awe she hears the Critic's Fame, And blushing hides her Wreath at ^Shakespear's Name. Long slighted ^Fancy, with a Mother's Care, Wept o'er his Works, and felt the last Despair. Torn from her Head, she saw the Roses fall, By all deserted, tho' admir'd by all. "And oh! she cry'd, shall Science still resign "Whate'er is Nature's, and whate'er is mine? "Shall ^Taste and ^Art, but shew a cold Regard, "And scornful Pride reject th' unletter'd Bard?

"Ye myrtled Nymphs, who own my gentle Reign, "Tune the sweet Lyre, and grace my airy Train! "If, where ye rove, your searching Eyes have known One perfect Mind, which Judgement calls its own : There ev'ry Breast its fondest Hopes must bend, And ev'ry Muse with Tears await her Friend. 'Twas then fair ^Isis from her Stream arose, In kind Compassion of her Sister's Woes. 'Twas then she promis'd to the mourning Maid Th' immortal Honours, which thy Hands have paid: My best lov'd Son (she said) shall yet restore Thy ruin'd Sweets, and Fancy weep no more. Each rising Art by slow Gradation moves, Toil builds on Toil, and Age on Age improves. The Muse alone unequal dealt her Rage, And grac'd with noblest Pomp her earliest Stage. Preserv'd thro' Time, the speaking Scenes impart Each changeful Wish of ^Phaedra's tortur'd Heart: Or paint the curse, that mark'd the ^Theban's Reign, A Bed incestuous, and a Father slain. Line after Line, our pitying Eyes o'erflow, Trace the sad Tale, and own another's Woe.

To ^Rome remov'd with equal Pow'r to please, The ^Comic Sisters kept their native Ease. With jealous Fear declining ^Greece beheld Her own ^Menander's Art almost excell'd! But ev'ry Muse essay'd to raise in vain Some labour'd Rival of her ^Tragic Strain; ^Ilussus' Laurels, tho' transferr'd with Toil, Droop'd their fair Leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly Soil. When ^Rome herself, her envy'd Glories dead, No more Imperial, stoop'd her conquer'd Head: Luxuriant ^Florence chose a softer Theme, While all was Peace, by ^Arno's silver Stream. With sweeter Notes th'^Etrurian Vales complain'd, And Arts reviving told=a ^Cosmo reign'd. Their wanton Lyres the Bards of ^Provence strung, Sweet flow'd the Lays, but Love was all they sung. The gay Description could not fail to move, For,led by Nature, all are Friends to Love. But Heav'n, still rising in its Works, decreed The perfect Boast of Time should last succeed. The beauteous Union must appear at length, Of ^Tuscan Fancy, and Athenian Strength: One greater Muse Eliza's Reign adorn, And ev'n a ^Shakespear to her Fame be born!

Yet ah! so bright her Morning's op'ning Ray, In vain our ^Britain hop'd an equal Day! No second Growth the Western Isle could bear, At once exhausted with too rich a Year. Too nicely ^Johnson knew the Critic's Part; Nature in him was almost lost in Art. Of softer Mold the gentle ^Fletcher came, The next in Order, as the next in name. With pleas'd Attention 'midst his Scenes we find Each glowing Thought, that warms the Female Mind; Each melting Sigh, and ev'ry tender Tear, The Lover's Wishes and the Virgin's Fear. His ev'ry Strain the Loves and Graces own; But stronger ^Shakespear felt for Man alone: Drawn by his Pen, our ruder Passions stand Th' unrivall'd Picture of his early Hand. With gradual Steps, and slow, exacter ^France Saw Art's fair Empire o'er her Shores advance: By length of Toil, a bright Perfection knew, Correctly bold, and just in all she drew. Till late ^Corneille from Epick ^Lucan brought The full Expression, and the ^Roman thought;

And classic Judgment gain'd to sweet ^Racine Thetemp'rate Strength of ^Maro's chaster Line. But wilder far the British Laurel spread, And Wreaths less artful crown our Poet's Head. Yet He alone to ev'ry Scene could give Th' Historian's Truth, and bid the Manners live. Wak'd at his Call I view, with glad Surprize, Majestic Forms of mighty Monarchs rise. There ^Henry's Trumpets spread their loud Alarms, And laurel'd Conquest waits her Hero's Arms. Here gentler ^Edward claims a pitying Sigh, Scarce born to Honours, and so soon to die! Yet shall thy Throne, unhappy Infant, bring No Beam of Comfort to the guilty King? The Time shall come, when ^Glo'ster's Heart shall bleed In Life's last Hours, with Horror of the Deed: When dreary Visions shall at last present Thy vengeful Image, in the midnight Tent: Thy Hand unseen the secret Death shall bear, Blunt the weak Sword, and break th' oppressive Spear. Where'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find Some sweet Illusion of the cheated Mind.

Oft, wild of Wing, she calls the Soul to rove With humbler Nature, in the rural Grove; Where Swains contented own the quiet Scene, And twilight Fairies tread the circled Green: Drest by her Hand, the Woods and Vallies smile, And spring diffusive decks th'^Enchanted ^Isle. O blest in all that Genius gives to charm, Whose Morals mend us, and whose Passions warm! Oft let my Youth attend thy various Page, Where rich Invention rules th 'unbounded Stage. There ev'ry Scene the Poet's Warmth may raise, And melting Music find the softest Lays. O might the Muse with equal Ease persuade, Expressive Picture, to adopt thine Aid! Some pow'rful ^Raphael shou'd again appear, And Arts consenting fix their Empire here. Methinks ev'n now I view some fair Design, Where breathing Nature lives in ev'ry Line: Chaste, and subdu'd, the modest Colours lie, In fair Proportion to th' approving Eye= And see, where ^Anthony lamenting stands In fixt Distress, and spreads his pleading Hands!

O'er the pale Corse the Warrior seems to bend, Deep sunk in Grief, and mourns his murther'd Friend! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn Robe, and points the bleeding Wound. But who is he,whose Brows exalted bear A Rage impatient, and a fiercer Air? Ev'n now, his Thoughts with eager Venegeance doom The last sad Ruin of ungrateful ^Rome. Till, slow-advancing o'er the tented Plain, In sable Weeds, appear the Kindred-train: The frantic Mother leads their wild Despair, Beats her swoln Breast, and rends her silver Hair. And see he yields!... the Tears unbidden start, And conscious Nature claims th' unwilling Heart! O'er all the Man conflicting Passions rise, ^Rage grasps the Sword, while ^Pity melts the eyes. Thus, gen'rous Critic, as thy Bard inspires, The Sister Arts shall nurse their drooping Fires; Each from his Scenes her Stores alternate bring, Spread the fair Tints, or wake the vocal String: Those ^Sybil-Leaves, the Sport of ev'ry Wind, (For Poets ever were a careless Kind).

By thee dispos'd, no farther Toil demand, But, just to Nature, own thy forming Hand. So spread o'er ^Greece, th' harmonious Whole unknown, Ev'n ^Homer's Numbers charm'd by parts alone. Their own ^Ulysses scarce had wander'd more, By Winds and Waters cast on ev'ry Shore: When, rais'd by Fate, some former ^Hanmer join'd Each beauteous image of the tuneful mind: And bad, like Thee, his ^Athens, ever claim, A fond Alliance, with the Poet's Name.

ODE to PITY. O THOU, the Friend of Man assign'd, With balmy Hands his Wounds to bind, And charm his frantic Woe: When first ^Distress with Dagger keen Broke forth to waste his destin'd Scene, His wild unsated Foe! By ^Pella's Bard, a magic Name, By all the Griefs his Thought could frame, Receive my humble Rite: Long, ^Pity, let the Nations view Thy sky-worn Robes of tend'rest Blue, And Eyes of dewy Light! But wherefore need I wander wide To old ^Ilissus' distant Side,

Deserted Stream, and mute? Wild ^Arun too has heard thy Strains, And Echo, 'midst my native Plains, Been sooth'd by Pity's Lute. There first the Wren thy Myrtles shed On gentlest Otway's infant Head, To Him thy cell was shown; And while He sung the Female Heart, With Youth's soft Notes unspoil'd by Art, Thy Turtles mix'd their own. Come, ^Pity, come, by Fancy's Aid, Ev'n now my Thoughts, relenting Maid, Thy Temple's Pride design: Its Southern Site, its Truth compleat Shall raise a wild Enthusiast Heat, In all who view the Shrine. There Picture's Toils shall well relate, How Chance, or hard involving Fate,

O'er mortal Bliss prevail: The Buskin'd Muse shall near her stand, And sighting prompt her tender Hand, With each disastrous Tale. There let me oft, retir'd by Day, In Dreams of Passion melt away, Allow'd with Thee to dwell: There waste the mournful Lamp of Night, Till, Virgin, Thou again delight To hear a ^British Shell!

ODE to FEAR. THOU, to whom the World unknown With all its shadowy Shapes is shown; Who see'st appall'd th' unreal Scene, While Fancy lifts the Veil between: Ah ^Fear! Ah frantic ^Fear! I see, I see Thee near. I know thy hurried Step, thy haggard Eye! Like Thee I start, like Thee disorder'd fly. For lo what ^Monsters in thy Train appear! ^Danger, whose Limbs of Giant Mold What mortal Eye can fix'd behold? Who stalks his Round, an hideous Form, Howling amidst the Midnight Storm, Or throws him on the ridgy Steep Of some loose hanging Rock to sleep: And with him thousand Phantoms join'd, Who prompt to Deeds accurs'd the Mind: And those, the Fiends, who near allied, O'er Nature's Wounds, and Wrecks preside; Whilst ^Vengeance, in the lurid Air,

Lifts her red Arm, expos'd and bare: On whom that rav'ning Brood of Fate, Who lap the Blood of Sorrow, wait; Who, ^Fear, this ghastly Train can see, And look not madly wild, like Thee? In earliest ^Grece to Thee with partial Choice, The Grief-full Muse addrest her infant Tongue; The Maids and Matrons, on her awful Voice, Silent and pale in wild Amazement hung. Yet He, the Bard who first invok'd thy Name, Disdain'd in ^Marathon its Pow'r to feel: For not alone he nurs'd the Poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's Hand the Patriot's Steel. But who is He whom later Garlands grace, Who left a-while o'er ^Hybla's Dews to rove, With trembling Eyes thy dreary Steps to trace, Where Thou and Furies shar'd the baleful Grove?

Wrapt in thy cloudy Veil the ^Incestuous ^Queen Sigh'd the sad Call her Son and Husband hear'd, When once alone it broke the silent Scene, And He the Wretch of ^Thebes no more appear'd. O Fear, I know Thee by my throbbing Heart, Thy with'ring Pow'r inspir'd each mournful line, Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled Part, Yet all the Thunders of the Scene are thine! Thou who such weary Lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted Cell, Where gloomy ^Rape and ^Murder dwell? Or, in some hollow'd Seat, 'Gainst which the big Waves beat, Dear drowning Sea-men's Cries in Tempest's brought! Hark Pow'r, with shudd'ring meek submitted Thought

Be mine to read the Visions old, Which thy awak'ning Bards have told: And lest thou meet my blasted View, Hold each strange Tale devoutly true, Ne'er be I found, by Thee o'eraw'd, In that thrice-hallow'd Eve abroad, When Ghosts, as Cottage-Maids believe, Their pebbled Beds permitted leave, And ^Gobblins haunt from Fire, or Fen, Or Mine, or Flood, the Walks of Men! O Thou whose Spirit most possest The sacred Seat of ^Shakespear's Breast! By all that from thy Prophet broke, In thy Divine Emotions spoke: Hither again thy Fury deal, Teach me but once like Him to feel: His ^Cypress Wreath my Meed decree, And I,O Fear, will dwell with Thee!

ODE to SIMPLICITY. O Thou by ^Nature taught, To breathe her genuine Thought, In Numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong: Who first on mountains wild, In Fancy loveliest Child, Thy Babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the Pow'rs of Song! Thou, who with Hermit Heart Disdain'st the Wealth of Art, And Gauds, and pageant Weeds, and trailing Pall: But com'st a decent Maid In ^Attic Robe array'd, O chaste unboastful Nymph, to Thee I call!

By all the honey'd Store On Hybla's Thymy Shore, By all her Blooms, and mingled Murmurs dear, By Her, whose Love-born Woe In Ev'ning Musings slow Sooth'd sweetly sad ^Electra's Poet's Ear: By old ^Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy Sweep In warbled Wand'rings round thy green Retreat, On whose enamel'd Side When holy ^Freedom died No equal Haunt allur'd thy future Feet. O Sister meek of Truth, To my admiring Youth, Thy sober Aid and native Charms infuse! The Flow'rs that sweetest breathe, Tho' Beauty cull'd the Wreath, Still ask thy Hand to range their order'd Hues.

While Rome could none esteem But Virtue's Patriot Theme, You lov'd her Hills, and led her Laureate Band: But staid to sing alone To one distinguish'd Throne, And turn'd thy Face, and fled her alter'd Land. No more, in Hall or Bow'r, The Passions own thy Pow'r, Love, only Love her forceless Numbers mean: For Thou hast left her Shrine, Nor Olive more, nor Vine, Shall gain thy Feet to bless the servile Scene. Tho' Taste, tho' Genius bless, To some divine Excess, Faints the cold Work till Thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply, May court, may charm, our Eye, Thou, only Thou can'st raise the meeting Soul!

Of These let others ask, To aid some mighty Task, I only seek to find thy temp'rate Vale: Where oft my Reed might sound To Maids and Shepherds round, And all thy Sons, O ^Nature, learn my Tale.

ODE on the POETICAL CHARACTER. As once, if not with light Regard, I read aright that gifted Bard, (Him whose School above the rest His Loveliest ^Elfin Queen has blest.) One, only One, unrival'd Fair, Might hope the magic Girdle wear, At solemn Turney hung on high, The Wish of each love-darting Eye; Lo! to each other Nymph in turn applied, As if, in Air unseen, some hov'ring Hand, Some chaste and Angel-Friend to Virgin-Fame, With whisper'd Spell had burst the starting Band, It left unblest her loath'd dishonour'd Side; Happier hopeless Fair, if never Her baffled Hand with vain Endeavour Had touch'd that fatal Zone to her denied!

Young ^Fancy thus, to me Divinest Name, To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in Heav'n, The Cest of amplest Pow'r is giv'n: To few the God-like Gift assigns, To gird their blest prophetic Loins, And gaze her Visions wild, and feel unmix'd her Flame! The Band, as Fairy Legends say, Was wove on that creating Day, When He, who call'd with Thought to Birth Yon tented Sky, this laughing Earth, And drest with Springs, and Forests tall, And pour'd the Main engirting all, Long by the lov'd ^Enthusiast woo'd, Himself in some Diviner Mood, Retiring, sate with her alone, And plac'd her on his #saphire Throne, The whiles, the vaulted Shrine around, Seraphic Wires were heard to sound, Now sublimest Triumph swelling, Now on Love and Mercy dwelling; And she, from out the veiling cloud, Breat'd her magic Notes aloud:

And Thou, Thou rich-hair'd Youth of Morn, And all thy subject Life was born! The dang'rous Passions kept aloof, Far from the sainted growing Woof: But near it sate Ecstatic ^Wonder, List'ning the deep applauding Thunder: And Truth, in sunny Vest array'd, By whose the Tarsel's Eyes were made; All the shad'wy Tribes of ^Mind, In braided Dance their Murmurs join'd, And all the bright uncounted Pow'rs Who feed on Heav'n's ambrosial Flow'rs. Where is the Bard, whose Soul can now Its high presuming Hopes avow? Where He who thinks, with Rapture blind, This hallow'd Work for Him design'd? High on some Cliff, to Heav'n up-pil'd, Of rude Access, of Prospect wild, Where, tangled round the jealous Steep, Strange Shades o'erbrow the Valleys deep, And holy ^Genii guard the Rock, Its Gloomes embrown, its Springs unlock,

While on its rich ambitious Head, An ^Eden, like his own, lies spread. I view that Oak, the fanciest Glades among, By which as ^Milton lay, His Ev'ning Ear, From many a Cloud that drop'd Ethereal Dew, Nigh spher'd in Heav'n its native Strains could hear: On which that ancient Trump he reach'd was hung; Thither oft his Glory greeting, From ^Waller's Myrtle Shades retreating, With many a Vow from Hope's aspiring Tongue, My trembling Feet his guiding Steps pursue; In vain=Such Bliss to One alone, Of all the Sons of Soul was known, And Heav'n, and ^Fancy, kindred Pow'rs, Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring Bow'rs, Or curtain'd close such Scene from ev'ry future View.

ODE + Written in the beginning of the Year 1746 How sleep the Brave, who sink to Rest, By all their Country's Wishes blest! When ^Spring, with dewy Fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd Mold, She there shall dress a sweeter Sod, Than ^Fancy's Feet have ever trod. . By Fairy Hands their Knell is rung, By Forms unseen their Dirge is sung; There ^Honour comes, a Pilgrim grey, To bless the Turf that wraps their Clay, And ^Freedom shall a-while repair, To dwell a weeping Hermit there!

ODE to MERCY. O thou, who sit'st a smiling Bride By ^Valour's arm'd and awful Side, Gentlest of Sky-born Forms, and best ador'd: Who oft with Songs, divine to hear, Win'st from his fatal Grasp the Spear, And hid'st in Wreaths of Flow'rs his bloodless Sword! Thou who, amidst the deathful Field, By Godlike Chiefs alone beheld, Oft with thy Bosom bare art found, Pleading for him the Youth who sinks to Ground: See, ^Mercy, see, with pure and loaded Hands, Before thy shrine my Country's Genius stands, And decks thy Altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a Wound!

When he whom ev'n our Joys provoke, The ^fiend ^of ^Nature join'd his Yoke, And rush'd in Wrath to make our Isle his Prey; Thy Form, from out thy sweet Abode, O'ertook Him on his blasted Road, And stop'd his Wheels, and look'd his Rage away. I see recoil his sable Steeds, That bore Him swift to Salvage Deeds, Thy tender melting Eyes they own; O Maid, for all thy Love to ^Britain shown, Where ^Justice bars her Iron Tow'r, To Thee we build a roseate Bow'r, Thou, Thou shalt rule our Queen, and share our Monarch's Throne!

. ODE to LIBERTY. < . Who shall awake the ^Spartan Fife, And call in solemn Sounds to Life, The Youths, whose Locks divinely spreading, Like vernal Hyacinths in sullen Hue, At once the Breath of Fear and Virtue shedding, Applauding ^Freedom lov'd of old to view? What New ^Alcaeus, Fancy-blest, Shall sing the Sword, in Myrtles drest, At ^Wisdom's Shrine a-while its Flame concealing, (What Place so fit to seal a Deed renown'd?) Till she her brightest Lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in Glory forth, and dealt her prompted Wound!

O Goddess, in that feeling Hour, When most its Sounds would court thy Ears, Let not my Shell's misguided Pow'r, E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful Tears. No, ^Freedom, no , I will not tell, How ^Rome, before thy weeping Face, With heaviest Sound, a Giant-statue, fell, Push'd by a wild and artless Race, From off its wide ambitious Base, When Time his Northern Sons of Spoil awoke, And all the blended Work of strength and Grace, With many a rude repeated Stroke, And many a barb'rous Yell, to thousand Fragments broke. Yet ev'n, where'er the least appear'd, Th' admiring World thy Hand rever'd; Still 'midst the scatter'd States around, Some Remnants of Her Strength were found; They saw by what escap'd the storm, How wond'rous rose her perfect Form;

. How in the great the labour'd Whole, Each mighty Master pour'd his Soul! For sunny ^Florence, Seat of Art, Beneath her Vines preserv'd a part, Till They, whom Science lov'd to name, (O who could fear it?) quench'd her Flame. And lo, an humbler Relick laid In jealous ^Pisa's Olive Shade! See small ^Marino joins the Theme, Tho' least, not last in thy Esteem: Strike, louder strike th' ennobling Strings To those, whose Merchant Sons 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 sad ^Liguria's bleeding State. Ah no! more pleas'd thy Haunts I seek, On wild ^Helvetia's Mountains bleak: (Where, when the favor'd of thy Choice, The daring Archer heard thy Voice;

. Forth from his Eyrie rous'd in Dread, The rav'ning ^Eagle northward fled.) Or dwell in willow'd Meads more near, With Those to whom Thy Stork is dear: Those whom the Rod of ^Alva bruis'd, Whose Crown a ^British Queen refus'd! The Magic works, Thou feel'st the Strains, One holier Name alone remains; The perfect Spell shall then avail, Hail Nymph, ador'd by Britain, Hail! Beyond the Measure vast of Thought, The Works, the Wizzard ^Time has wrought! The ^Gaul, 'tis held of antique Story, Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse Strand,

. No Sea between, nor Cliff sublime and hoary, He pass'd with unwet Feet through all our Land. To the ^Blown Baltic then, they say, The wild Waves found another way, Where ^Orcas howls, his wolfish Mountains rounding; Till all the banded West at once 'gan rise, A wide wild Storm ev'n Nature's self confounding, With'ring her Giant Sons with strange uncouth Surprise. This pillar'd Earth so firm and wide, By Winds and inward Labors torn, In Thunders dread was push'd aside, And down the should'ring Billows born. And see, like Gems, her laughing Train, The little Isles on ev'ry side, ^Mona, once hid from those who search the Main, Where thousand Elfin Shapes abide, And ^Wight who checks the west'ring Tide,

. For Thee consenting Heav'n has each bestow'd, A fair Attendant on her sov'reign Pride: To Thee this blest Divorce she ow'd, For thou hast made her Vales thy lov'd, thy last Abode! Then too, 'tis said, an hoary Pile, 'Midst the green Navel of our Isle, Thy Shrine in some religious Wood, O Soul-enforcing Goddess stood! There oft the painted Native's Feet, Were wont thy Form celestial meet: Tho' now with hopeless Toil we trace Time's backward Rolls, to find its place; Whether the fiery-tressed ^Dane, Or ^Roman's self o'erturn'd the Fane, Or in what Heav'n-left Age it fell, 'Twere hard for modern Song to tell. Yet still, if Truth those Beams infuse, 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 blest, Or Bow'rs by Spring or ^Hebe drest, The Chiefs who fill our ^Albion's Story, In warlike Weeds, retir'd in Glory, Hear their consorted ^Druids sing 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 favor'd Eyes, In ^Gothic Pride it seems to rise! Yet ^Graecia's graceful Orders join, Majestic thro' the mix'd Design; The secret Builder knew to chuse, Each sphere-found Gem of richest Hues: Whate'er Heav'n's purer Mold contains, When nearer Suns emblaze its Veins; There on the Walls the ^Patriot's Sight, May ever hang with fresh Delight, And , grav'd with some Prophetic Rage, Read ^Albion's Fame thro' ev'ry Age. Ye Forms Divine, ye Laureate Band, That near her inmost Altar stand!

. Now sooth Her, to her blissful Train Blithe ^Concord's social Form to gain: ^Concord, whose Myrtle Wand can steep Ev'n ^Anger's blood-shot Eyes in sleep: Before whose breathing Bosom's Balm, ^Rage drops his Steel, and Storms grow calm; Her let our Sires 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 Sound, The Nations shout to Her around, O how supremely art thou blest, Thou, Lady, Thou shalt rule the West!

. ODE, to a Lady on the Death of Colonel + ROSS in the Action of Fontenoy. . WHILE, lost to all his former Mirth, ^Britannia's Genius bends to Earth, And mourns the fatal Day: While stain'd with Blood he strives to tear Unseemly from his Sea-green Hair The Wreaths of chearful May: . The Thoughts which musing Pity pays, And fond Remembrance loves to raise, Your faithful Hours attend: Still Fancy to Herself unkind, Awakes to Grief the soften'd Mind, And points the bleeding Friend.

By rapid ^Scheld's descending Wave His Country's Vows shall bless the Grave, Where'er the Youth is laid: That sacred Spot the Village Hind With ev'ry sweetest Turf shall bind, And Peace protect the Shade. . Blest Youth, regardful of thy Doom, Aerial Hands shall build thy Tomb, With shadowy Trophies crown'd: Whilst ^Honor bath'd in Tears shall rove To sigh thy Name thro' ev'ry Grove, And call his Heros round. . The warlike Dead of ev'ry Age, Who fill the fair recording Page, Shall leave their sainted Rest: And, half-reclining on his Spear, Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear, To hail the blooming Guest.

Old ^Edward's Sons, unknown to yield, Shall croud from ^Cressy's laurell'd Field, And gaze with fix'd Delight: Again for Britain's Wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy Steel, And wish th' avenging Fight. . But lo where, sunk in deep Despair, Her Garments torn, her Bosom bare, Impatient ^Freedom lies! Her matted Tresses madly spread, To ev'ry Sod, which wraps the Dead, she turns her joyless Eyes. . Ne'er shall she leave that lowly Ground, Till Notes of Triumph bursting round Proclaim her Reign restor'd: Till ^William seek the sad Retreat, And bleedng at her sacred Feet, Present the sated Sword.

. . If, weak to sooth so soft an Heart, These pictur'd Glories nought impart, To dry thy constant Tear: If yet, in Sorrow's distant Eye, Expos'd and pale thou see'st him lie, Wild War insulting near: . Where'er from Time Thou court'st Relief, The Muse shall still, with social Grief, Her gentlest Promise keep: Ev'n humbled ^Harting's cottag'd Vale Shall learn the sad repeated Tale, And bid her Shepheards weep.

. ODE to EVENING. IF ought of Oaten Stop, or Pastoral Song, May hope, O pensive ^Eve, to soothe thine Ear, Like thy own brawling Springs, Thy Springs, and dying Gales, O ^Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright hair'd Sun Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts, With Brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy Bed: Now Air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd Bat, With short shrill Shriek flits by on leathern Wing, Or where the Beetle winds His small but sullen Horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight Path, Against the Pilgrim born in heedless Hum: Now teach me, ^Maid compos'd, To breathe some soften'd Strain, Whose Numbers stealing thro' thy darkning Vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd Return!

. For when thy folding Star arising shews His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp The fragrant ^Hours, and ^Elves Who slept in Buds the Day, And many a ^Nymph who wreaths her Brows with Sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning Dew, and lovelier still, The ^Pensive ^Pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy Car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy Scene, Or ind some Ruin 'midst its dreary Dells, Whose Walls more awful nod By thy religious Gleams. Or if chill blust'ring Winds, or driving Rain, Prevent my willing Feet, be mine the Hut, That from the Mountain's Side, Views Wilds, and swelling Floods, And Hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd Spires, And hears their simple Bell, and marks o'er all Thy Dewy Fingers draw The gradual dusky Veil. While ^Spring shall pour his Show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest ^Eve! While ^Summer loves to sport, Beneath thy ling'ring Light: While sallow ^Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves,

. Or ^Winter yelling thro' the troublous Air, Affrights thy shrinking Train, And rudely rends thy Robes. So long regardful of thy quiet Rule, Shall ^Fancy, ^Friendship, ^Science, smiling ^Peace, Thy gentlest Influence own, And love thy fav'rite Name!

. ODE to PEACE. O THOU, who bad'st thy Turtles bear Swift from his Grasp thy golden Hair, And sought'st thy native Skies: When ^War , by Vultures drawn from far To Britain bent his Iron Car, And bad his Storms arise! . Tir'd of his rude tyrannic Sway, Our Youth shall fix some festive Day, His sullen Shrines to burn: But Thou who hear'st the turning Spheres, What Sounds may charm thy partial Ears, And gain thy blest Return! . O ^Peace, thy injur'd Robes up-bind, O rise, and leave not one behind Of all thy beamy Train:

. The ^British Lion, Goddess sweet, Lies stretch'd on Earth to kiss thy Feet, And own thy holier Reign. . Let others court thy transient Smile, But come to grace thy western Isle, By warlike ^Honour led! And, while around her Ports rejoice, While all her sons adore thy Choice, With Him for ever wed!

. The MANNERS, an ODE. FAREWELL, for clearer Ken design'd, The dim-discover'd Tracts of Mind: Truths which, from Action's Paths retir'd, My silent Search in vain requir'd! No more my Sail that Deep explores, No more I search those magic Shores, What Regions part the World of Soul, Or whence thy Streams, ^Opinion, roll: If e'er I round such Fairy Field, Some Pow'r impart the spear and Shield, At which the Wizzard Passions fly, By which the Giant ^Follies die! Farewell the Porch whose Roof is seen, Arch'd with th' enlivening Olive's Green: Where ^Science, prank'd in tissued Vest, By ^Reason, ^Pride, and ^Fancy drest, Comes like a Bride so trim array'd, To wed with ^Doubt in ^Plato's Shade!

. Youth of the quick uncheated Sight, Thy Walks, ^Observance, more invite! O Thou, who lov'st that ampler Range, Where Life's wide Prospects round thee change, And with her mingling Sons ally'd, Throw'st the prattling Page aside: To me in Converse sweet impart, To read in Man the native Heart, To learn, where Science sure is found, From Nature as she lives around: And gazing oft her Mirror true, By turns each shifting Image view! Till meddling ^Art's officious Lore, Reverse the Lessons taught before, Alluring him from a safer Rule, To dream in her enchanted School; Thou Heav'n, whate'er of Great we boast, Hast blest this social Science most. Retiring hence to thoughtful Cell, As ^Fancy breathes her potent Spell, Not vain she finds the charmful Task, In Pageant quaint, in motley Mask, Behold before her musing Eyes, The countless ^Manners round her rise; While ever varying as they pass,

. To some ^Contempt applies her Glass: With these the ^White ^Rob'd ^Maids combine, And those the laughing ^Satyrs join! But who is He whom now she views, In Robe of wild contending Hues? Thou by the Passions nurs'd, I greet The comic Sock that binds thy Feet! O ^Humour, Thou whose Name is known To ^Britain's favor'd Isle alone: Me too amidst thy Band admit, There where the young-eyed healthful ^Wit, (Whose Jewels in his crisped Hair Are plac'd each other's Beams to share, Whom no Delights from Thee divide) In Laughter loos'd attends thy side! By old ^Miletus who so long Has ceas'd his ^Love-inwoven Song: By all you taught the ^Tuscan Maids, In chang'd ^Italia's modern Shades: By Him, whose ^Knight's distinguish'd Name Refin'd a Nation's Lust of Fame; Whose Tales ev'n now, with Echos sweet, ^Castilia's ^Moorish Hills repeat:

. Or Him, whom ^Seine's blue Nymphs deplore, In watchet Weeds on ^Gallia's Shore, Who drew the sad ^Sicilian Maid, By Virtues in her Sire 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 Seal! Let some retreating Cynic find, Those oft-turn'd Scrolls I leave behind, The ^Sports and I this Hour agree, To rove thy Scene-full World with Thee!

. The PASSIONS, An ODE for Music. WHEN Music, Heav'nly Maid, was young, While yet in early ^Greece she sung, The Passions oft to hear her Shell, Throng'd around her magic Cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse's Painting; By turns they felt the glowing Mind, Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd. Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with Fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting Myrtles round, They snatch'd her Instruments of Sound, And as they oft had heard a-part Sweet Lessons of her forceful Art, Each, for Madness rul'd the Hour, Would prove his own expressive Pow'r.

. First ^Fear his Hand, its Skill to try, Amid the Chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd he knew not why, Ev'n at the Sound himself had made. Next ^Anger rush'd, his Eyes on fire, In Lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude Clash he struck the Lyre, And swept with hurried Hand the Strings. With woful Measures wan ^Despair Low sullen Sounds his Grief beguil'd, A solemn, strange, and mingled Air, 'Twas sad by Fits, by Starts 'twas wild. But thou, O ^Hope, with Eyes so fair, What was thy delightful Measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd Pleasure, And bad the lovely Scenes at distance hail! Still would Her Touch the Strain prolong, And from the Rocks, the Woods, the Vale, She call'd on Echo still thro' all the Song; And, where Her sweetest Theme She chose, A soft responsive Voice was heard at ev'ry Close, And ^Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd Her golden Hair.

. And longer had She sung,=but with a Frown, ^Revenge impatient rose, He threw his blood-stain'd Sword in Thunder down, And with a with'ring Look, The War-denouncing Trumpet took, And blew a Blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er Prophetic Sounds so full of Woe. And ever and anon he beat The doubling Drum with furious Heat; And tho' sometimes each dreary Pause between, Dejected ^Pity at his Side, Her Soul-subduing Voice applied, Yet still He kept his wild unalter'd Mien, While each strain'd Ball of Sight seem'd bursting from his Head. Thy Numbers, ^Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad Proof of thy distressful State, Of diff'ring Themes the veering Song was mix'd, And now it courted ^Love, now raving call'd on ^Hate. With Eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale ^Melancholy sate retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd Seat, In Notes by Distance made more sweet,

. Pour'd thro' the mellow ^Horn her pensive Soul: And dashing soft from Rocks around, Bubbling Runnels join'd the Sound; Thro' Glades and Glooms the mingled Measure stole, Or o'er some haunted Stream with fond Delay, Round an holy Calm diffusing, Love of Peace, and lonely Musing, In hollow Murmurs died away. But O how alter'd was its sprightlier Tone! When ^Chearfulness, a Nymph of healthiest Hue, Her Bow a-cross her Shoulder flung, Her Buskins gem'd with Morning Dew, Blew an inspiring Air, that Dale and Thicket rung, The Hunter's Call to ^Faun and ^Dryad known! The ^Oak-crown'd ^Sisters, and their chast-eye'd ^Queen, ^Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen, Peeping from forth their Alleys green; Brown ^Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And ^Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his Beechen Spear. Last came ^Joys Ecstatic Trial, He with viny Crown advancing, First to the lively Pipe his Hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning Viol, Whose sweet entrancing Voice he lov'd the best.

They would have thought who heard the Strain, They saw in ^Tempe's Vale her native Maids, Amidst the festal sounding Shades, To some unwearied Minstrel dancing, While as his flying Fingers kiss'd the Strings, LOVE fram'd with ^Mirth, a gay fantastic Round, Loose were Her Tresses seen, her Zone unbound, And HE amidst his frolic Play, As if he would the charming Air repay, Shook thousand Odours from his dewy Wings. O ^Music, Sphere-descended Maid, Friend of Pleasure, ^Wisdom's Aid, Why, Goddess, why to us deny'd? Lay'st Thou thy antient Lyre aside? As in that lov'd ^Athenian Bow'r, You learn'd an all-commanding Pow'r, Thy mimic Soul, O Nymph endear'd, Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple Heart, Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? Arise as in that elder Time, Warm, Energic, Chaste, Sublime! Thy Wonders in that God-like Age, Fill thy recording ^Sister's Page=

. 'Tis said, and I believe the Tale, Thy humblest ^Reed could more prevail, Had more of Strength, diviner Rage, Than all which charms this laggard Age, Ev'n all at once together found, ^Cecilia's mingled World of Sound= O bid our vain Endeavours cease, Revive the just Designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple State! Confirm the Tales Her Sons relate!

. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its Poet's sylvan grave! In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love thro' life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here, And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell. .

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest! . And oft as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep. . But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail? Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail? . Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year. . But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! . And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek Nature's Child, again adieu! . The genial meads assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds, and shepheard-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. . Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes, O! vales, and wild woods, shall He say, In yonder grave your Druid lies!

. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE, + SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER + FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing of Spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove: But shepheard lads assemble here. And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

. The red-breast oft at ev'ning hours Shall kindly lend his little aid: With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or 'midst the chace on ev'ry plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed: Belov'd till life can charm no more, And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.