And oft repeat, in eager thought elate,

(As round in classic search you trace)

With curious eye the pleasing place, (sate.' *This fount he lov’d, and there beneath that oak he

How longs my raptur'd breast with you,

Great Raphael's magic strokes to view, To whose bless'd hand each charm the Graces gave!

Whence each fair form with beauty glows,

Like that of Venus, when she rose Naked in blushing charms from oceau's hoary wave.

As oft by roving fancy led,

To smooth Clitumnus' banks you tread, What awful thoughts his fabled waters raise!

While the low-thoughted swain, whose flock

Grazes around, from some steep rock,
With vulgar disregard his mazy course surveys.

Now through the ruin'd domes my Muse

Your steps with eager flight pursues, That their cleft piles on Tyber's plains present ;

Among whose hollow-winding cells,

Forlorn and wild, Rome's Genius dwells; His golden sceptre broke, and purple mantle rent.

Oft to those mossy mouldering walls,

Those caverns dark, and silent halls, Let me repair by midnight's paly fires;

There muse on Empire's fallen state,

And frail Ambition's hapless fate, [inspires. While more than mortal thoughts the solemn scene

What Just of power from the cold North
Could tempt those Vandal-robbers forth,

Fair Italy, thy vine-clad vales to waste?

Whose hands profane, with hostile blade,

Thy storied temples dard invade,
And all thy Parian seats of Attic art defac'd!

They, weeping Art in fetters bound,

And gor'd her breast with many a wound, And veil'd her charms in clouds of thickest night;

Sad Poësy, much injur'd maid,

They drove to some dim convent's shade, And quench'din gloomy mist her lamp's resplendent


There long she wept to darkness doom'd,

Till Cosmo's hand her light relum'd, That once again in lofty Tasso shone;

Since has sweet Spenser caught hier fire,

She breathed once inore in Milton's lyre, And warm'd the soul divine of Shakspeare, Fancy's


Nor she, mild queen, will cease to smile

On her Britannia's much-lov'd isle, Where these her best, her favourite Three were born,

While Theron' warbles Grecian strains,

Or polish'd Dodington remains, The drooping train of arts to cherish and adorn.

1 Akenside,


FAREWELL, thou dimpled cherub Joy,
Thou rose-crown'd, ever-smiling boy,
Wont thy sister Hope to lead
To dance along the primrose mead !
No more, bereft of happy hours,
I seek thy lute-resounding bow'rs,
But to yon ruin'd tower repair,
To meet the god of groans, Despair ;
Who, on that ivy-darken'd ground,
Still takes at eve his silent round,
Or sits yon pew-made grave beside,
Where lies a frantic suicide ;
While labouring sighs my heart-strings break,
Thus to the sullen power I speak :
* Haste with thy poison'd dagger, laste,
To pierce this sorrow-laden breast !
Or lead me at the dead of night,
To some sea-beat mountain's height,
Whence with headlong haste I'll leap
To the dark bosom of the deep;
Or show me, far from human eye,
Some cave to muse in, starve and die:
No weeping friend or brother near,
My last fond, faltering words to hear.'-
Twas thus with weight of woes oppress’d
I sought to ease my bruised breast;
When straight more gloomy grew the shade,
And lo! a tall majestic maid:
Her limbs, not delicately fair,
Robust, and of a martial air;

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She bore of steel a polish'd shield,
Where highly-sculptur'd I beheld
'The’ Athenian martyr' smiling stand,
The baleful goblet in his hand :
Sparkled her eyes with lively flame,
And Patience was the Seraph's name;
Sternly she look'd, and stern began-

Thy sorrows cease, complaining man,
Rouse thy weak soul, appease thy moan,
Soon are the clouds of sadness gone ;

Though now in Grief's dark groves you walk, Where grisly fiends about you stalk, Beyond a blissful city lies, Far from whose gates each anguish flies : Take thon this shield, which once of yore Ulysses and Alcides wore, And which in later days I gave To Regulus and Raleigh brave; In exile or in dungeon drear, Their mighty minds could banish fear; Thy heart no tenfold woes shall feel, 'Twas virtue temper'd the rough steel; And, by her heavenly fingers wrought, To me the precious present brought.'

I Sucrates.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O Thou, that to the moonlight vale Warblest oft thy plaintive tale, What time the village murmurs cease, And the still eve is hush'd to peace, When now no busy sound is heard, Contemplation's favourite bird!

Chantress of night, whose amorous song
First heard the tufted groves among,
Warns wanton Mabba to begin
Her revels on the circled green,
Whene'er by Meditation led,
I nightly seek some distant mead;

A short repose of cares to find,
And soothe my love-distracted mind;
O fail not then, sweet Philomel,
Thy sadly-warbled woes to tell;
For sympathetic numbers join
Thy pangs of luckless love with mine!
So may no swain's rude hand infest
Thy tender young, and rob thy nest;
Nor ruthless fowler's guileful snare
Lure thee to leave the fields of air,
No more to visit vale or shade,
Some barbarous virgin's captive made.

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