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No Heaven's immortal (pring fhall yet arrive;
And man's majestic beauty bloom again,
Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant
This truth fublime his fimple fire had taught.
Let man's own fphere (quoth he) confine his view,
And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Wo, 'O never, never turn away thine ear.
Forlorn, is this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man, fhould heaven refuse to hear To others do-(the law is not severe :) What to thyself thou wishest to be done. 'Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear, And friends, and native land; nor thofe alone; All human weal and wo learn thou to make thine own.'
See, in the rear of the warm funny shower,
Yet couldst thou learn, that thus it fares with age, When pleafure, wealth, or power, the bofom warm,
This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, And Difappointment of her fting difarm.---But why fhould forefight thy fond heart alarm? Perish the lore that deadens young defire! Purfue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm, Indulge gay Hope, and Fancy's pleafing fire: Fancy and Hope too foon shall of themselves expire.
When the long-founding curfew from afar
Or blaft that shrieks by fits the fhuddering ifles along.
Or, when the fetting moon, in crimson dyed,
XXXIV. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arofe; the trumpet bids the waves unfold; And forth an hoft of little warriors march, Grafping the diamond lance and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour böld, And green their helms, and green their filk attire; And here and there, right venerably add,
The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire, And fome with mellow breath the martial pipe infpire.
With merriment, and fong, and timbrels clear, A troep of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; The little warriors doff the targe and fpear,. And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel afkance; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous fpring, then glance Rapid along; with many coloured rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forefts blaze.
The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day,
Forbear, my Mufe. Let Love attune thy line. Revoke the fpell. Thine Edwin frets not fo. For how fhould he at wicked chance repine, Who feels from every change amusement flow; Even now his eyes with fmiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the fcenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living luftre blow, Where thoufand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are born.
But who the melodies of morn can tell?
'The wild brook babbling down the mountain fide;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
Crown'd with her pale the tripping milk-maid fings;
O Nature, how in every charm fupreme!
Hence! ye, who fnare and ftupify the mind, Sophifts, of beauty, virtue, joy the bane! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who fpread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain! Hence to dark Error's den, whofe wrankling flime First gave you form! hence! left the Mufe fhould deign, (Though loath on theme fo mean to waste a rhyme) With vengeance to pursue your facrilegious crime.
But hail, ye mighty mafters of the lay,
Whose fong, fublimely fweet, ferenely gay,
Infpire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!
Ah me! abandon'd on the lonesome plain,
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;
Various and ftrange was the long-winded tale; And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd; Or merry fwains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, And fing, enamour'd of the nut-brown maid; The moon-light revel of the fairy glade; Or hags, that fuckle an infernal brood, And ply in caves th' unutterable trade*, Midft fiends and fpectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.
But when to horror his amazement rofe,
A gentler train the Beldam would rehcarse,
Allufion to SHAKESPEAR.
Macbeth. How now, ye fecret, black, and midnight hags, What is't you do?
Witches. A deed without a Name,