And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,

And all thy subject life was born!

The dangerous passions kept aloof,

Far from the sainted growing woof:
But near it sat ecstatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder;
And Truth, in sunny vest array'd,
By whose the tarsel's eyes were made;
All the shadowy tribes of mind,
In braided dance, their murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted powers
Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers.
-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 heaven 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 glooms embrown, its springs unlock,

While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread.

I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,

From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

Nigh spher'd in heaven, 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 Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers;

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 mould,
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 gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

ODE TO MERCY.

STROPHE.

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!

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 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!