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O heaven-born sisters! source of art!
To what new elime, what distant sky,
Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
And Athens rising near the pole !
Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land.
Ye gods! what justice rules the ball?
In every age, in every state!
Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
O tyrant Love! hast thou possest
But entering learns to be sincere.
Love's purer flames the gods approve;
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Oh, source of every social tie,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend?
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
What tender passions take their turns
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine.
EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND MORTIMER,
PREFIXED TO PARNELLE's poems.
SUCH were the notes thy once lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld and lost! admir'd and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd! Bless'd in each science! bless'd in every strain! Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear—in vain!
For him thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him despis'd the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great, Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear) Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnelle in his living lays; Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And sure if aught below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine;
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
When Interest calls off all her sneaking train,
Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day,
EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.
SECRETARY OF STATE.
A SOUL, as full of worth as void of pride,