Spurn my too officious Duty, Self-enamour'd of thy Beauty; And close thy ftern, inexorable Heart, Slighting the Vow fincere, which wants the Glofs of Art. IX. Hence, idle Fears-thou ftill art kind; Low at thy Footstool bends my trembling Knee; To thy Behefts refign'd. No rejected Votary's moans Taint the Air with feverish Groans. Where we reft, thy Charms enjoying, Widely thou pour'ft thy all-diffufive Rays, Inftant our kindling Souls with Fire congenial blaze. X. In Rhedycina's favour'd Seat, Where richest Verse thy fmould'ring Altar feeds, To give Thee Homage meet. Falfe Surmifes, hidden Flaws, Old Grammarians crabbed Laws; At thy Impulfe while elated, By thy Pleasure he unfated, With his fell Pen from thy Tribunal bends, As on the mangled Lines the frequent Blot defcends. XI. When Autumn brought the lowering Year,. Fair Ifis mingled with Britannia's Woe; Meanwhile thou taught'ft her Claffic Plains to flow O'er George's Grief-ftain'd Bier. How the mourn'd the Monarch dead, Father of his Country fled, I in lefs exalted Station, Stupidly nod o'er Poefy fo fine, Stretch'd on the lifeless Couch of Indolence fupine. XII. That Part to Thee' we confecrate Of the huge Wreath forfooth, which all the Nine, "Twould make a Breakfast for a King; As See-faw Flattery, and his Spirit Be coolly touch'd with fo much Merit; * Alluding to the following Lines in the concluding Copy of the OXFORD VERSES abovementioned, written by the Poetry Profeffor. deign to view This ample Wreath, which all th' affembled Nine With Skill united have confpir'd to twine. If If he endure the Song with Look finifter, The Plan will fuit at leaft a Patriot-Minister. XIII. Full many a Youth, whofe opening Shoot Teem'd with Poetic Foliage, o'er whofe Head Caftalian Dews the gracious Muse has shed, And promis'd riper Fruit; Such the firm Decrees of Fate, Such the Shortnefs of his Date, Where the triumphant Clouds of Smoke afpire, XIV. Far from the Terrors of thy Reign, Curb'd by thy Frown, audacious Genius flies; Or, if he impotently dares to rise, Is levell'd to the Plain: Nought avils his magic Art To avert thy vengeful Dart; And his infolent emprifing; Thou his vaunting Pow'r despifing, Eager his blafted Glories to confound, Strik'ft him a breathlefs Corfe, unpitying, to the Ground. When XV. When Swinging Slow with Sweepy Sway, Then our Vows thou deign'ft to hear, Aid, O Goddefs, aid my Numbers, Let me Share thy Sweeteft Slumbers, While from this Quill, as all along I doze, In Apathy discreet the Stumbling Stanza flows. See WARTON's Pleasures of Melancholy, a Poem. An A Poetical EPISTLE To ***** *******, M. A. Student of Chrift Church. By the Same. Mufe, Un Ufage inconftant t'entraine, Et la Raifon toujours certaine Ne t'a point marqué tes Sentiers? Mais, non, je ne veux point le croire; Le Reproche offense ta Gloire; Et fletriroit tous nos Lauriers. LA MOTTE. N Thames's Banks, while you with happier Care, ON In bolder Notes invite the Aonian Fair; Or nobly point, to guide the rifing Youth, No fervile Cuftom's narrow Laws revere, Accept |