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When years thy judgment fhall mature,
And Reafon fhews thofe ills it cannot cure,
Wilt thou, a father's grief t' affuage,
For virtue prove the Phoenix of the earth
(Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth),
And be the comfort of my age?
When fick and languifhing I lie,
Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply?
And, oft as to thy liftening ear
Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell,
Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear,
Whilft on the mournful theme I dwell?
Then, fondly ftealing to thy father's fide,
Whene'er thou fecft the loft diftrefs,
Which I would vainly feck to hide,
Say, wilt thou strive to make it lefs?
To footh my forrows all thy cares employ,
And in my cup of grief infufe one drop of joy?
105. An Evening Addrefs to a Nightingale.
Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, fay,
Where is the promis'd period of my woes›
Full three long, ling'ring years have roll'd away,
And yet I weep, a ftranger to repose:
O what delufion did thy tongue employ ! "That Emma's fatal pledge of love,
"Her laft bequeft, with all a mother's care, "The bitterness of forrow fhould remove, "Soften the horrors of despair,
"And cheer a heart long loft to joy!" How oft, when fondling in my arms, Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face,
My foul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
And oh what flatt'ring fcenes had fancy feign'd!
How did I rave of bleflings yet in ftore!
Till ev'ry aching fenfe was fweetly pain`d,
SWEET bird! that, kindly perching near,
Pouret thy plaints melodious in mine car,
Not, like bafe worldlings, tutor'd to forego
The melancholy haunts of woe;
Thanks for thy forrow-focthing strain :
For, furely, thou haft known to prove,
Like me, the pangs of hapless love;
Elfe why to feelingly complain,
And with thy piteous notes thus fadden all the
Say, deft thou mourn thy ravish'd mate,
That ofc enamour'd on thy ftrains has hung?
Or has the cruel hand of Fate
Bereft thee of thy darling young?
Alas! for both I weep:
In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
A lovely babe that fhould have liv'd to blefs,
And fill my doting eyes with frequent tears,
At once the fource of rapture and diftrefs,
The flattering prop of my declining years!
In vain from death to refcue I effay'd,
By ev'ry art that fcience could devife;
Alas! it languifh'd for a mother's aid,
And wing'd its fight to feek her in the skies.
Then, oh! our comforts be the fame,
At evening's peaceful hour,
To fhun the noify paths of wealth and
And breathe our forrows in this lonely
And my full heart could bear, nor tongue
could utter more.
"Juft Heaven!" I cried, with recent hopes elate,
"Yet will I live-will live, tho' Emma's dead:
So long bow'd down beneath the ftorms of fate,
"Yet will I raife my woe-dejected head!
“My little Emma, now my all,
Will want a father's care;
"Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recall, "And for her fake the ills of life I'll bear: "And oft together we 'll complain,
Complaint the only blifs my foul can know, "From me my child thall learn the mournful "ftrain,
"And prattle tales of woe.
"And, oh! in that aufpicious hour, "When Fate refigns her perfecuting pow'r, "With duteous zeal her hand thall clofe,
"No more to weep, my forrow-ftreaming eyes,
"When death gives mifery repofe,
"And opes a glorious paffage to the skies.”
Vain thought! it must not be-she too is dead,
The flatt'ring fcene is o'er;
My hopes for ever, ever fled;
And vengeance can no more.
Crush'd by misfortune, blafted by disease,
And none none left to bear a friendly part!
To meditate my welfare, health, or cafe,
Or footh the anguish of an aching heart!
Now all one gloomy fcene, till welcome death,
With lenient hand (oh falfely deem'd fevere),
fame,Shall kindly ftop my grief-exhaufted breath,
And dry up ev'ry tear.
Perhaps, obfequious to my will,
But why, alas! to thee complain,
To thee-unconscious of my pain?
Soon fhalt thou ceafe to mourn thy lot fevere,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:
The genial warmth of joy-renewing fpring
Again thall plume thy fhatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart fhall tranfport prove,
Again fhall flow thy notes refponfive to thy
But, oli! for me in vain may feafons roll, [love.
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears:
Deploring till the comfort of my soul,
I count my forrows by increafing years.
But, ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The laft fad office ftrangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been belov'd;
As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre;
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.
Yet, while this weary life shall laft,
While yet my tongue can form th' impaffion's
In piteous accents fhall the mufe complain,
And dwell with fond delay on bleffings pat:
For oh how grateful to a wounded heart
The tale of mifery to impart !
From others' eyes bid artless forrows flow,
And raife efteem upon the bafe of woe!
Even He, the nobleft of the tuneful throng,
Shall deigs my love-lorn tale to hear,
Shall catch the foft contagion of my fong,
And pay my penfive Mufe the tribute of a tear.
§ 106. An Ode to Narciffa. SMOLLET. THY fatal fhafts unerring move;
I bow before thine altar, Love!
I feel thy foft, refiftless flame
Glide fwift thro' all my vital frame !
For while I gaze my bofom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of tranfport whelm my foul!
My falt'ring tongue attempts in vain
In foothing murinurs to complain;
My tongue fome fecret magic ties,
My murmurs fink in broken fighs!
Condemn'd to nurfe eternal care,
And ever drop the filent tear,
Unheard I mourn, unknown I figh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die!
Monimia, give my foul her wonted reft:
Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,
Fir'd with a zeal peculiar, they defy
The rage and rigour of a polar sky,
And plant fuccefsfully fweet Sharon's rofe
On icy plains, and in eternal fnows.
Oh bleft within th' inclosure of your
Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks;
No fertilizing ftreams your fields divide,
That fhew revers'd the villas on their fide;
No groves have ye; no cheerful found of bird,
Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard;
Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell
Of thofe that walk at ev'ning where you dwell:
But winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown,
Sits abfolute on his unfhaken throne;
Piles up his ftores amidst the frozen waste,
And bids the mountains he has built ftand faft;
Beckons the legions of his ftorms away
From happier scenes, to make your land a prey;
Proclaims the foil a conqueft he has won,
And fcorns to fhare it with the distant fun.
Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied ifle;
And peace, the genuine offspring of her smile:
The pride of letter'd ignorance, that binds
In chains of error our accomplish'd minds;
That decks with all the fplendour of the true
A falfe religion-is unknown to you.
Nature indeed vouchfafes for our delight
The fweet viciffitudes of day and night;
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer
Field, fruit, and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here;
But brighter beams than his who fires the skies
Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes,
That fhoot into your darkest caves the day
From which our nicer optics turn away.
Heart-gnawing cares corrode my penfive breaft!§ 109. On Slavery, and the Slave Trade. COWPER.
BUT, an what with can profper, or what
Let happy lovers fly where pleafures call,
With feftive fongs beguile the fleeting hour,
Lead beauty thro' the mazes of the ball,
Or prefs her wanton in love's roseate bow'r.
For me, no more I'll range th' empurpled mead,
Where thepherds pipe and virgins dance around,All bonds of nature in that moment end;
Nor wander thro' the woodbine's fragrant fhade,
To hear the mufic of the grove refound.
I'll feek fome lonely church, or dreary hall,
Where fancy paints the glimm ring taper blue,
Where damps hang mould'ring on the ivy'd wall,
And fheeted ghofts drink up the midnight dew:
There, leagued with hopeless anguish and despair,
Awhile in filence o'er my fate repine:
Then, with a long farewell to love and care,
To kindred dust my weary limbs confign.
Wilt thou, Monimia, fhed a gracious tear
On the cold grave where all my for ows reft;
Strew vernal flow'rs, applaud my love fincere,
And bid the turf lie eafy on my breast?
For merchants rich in cargoes of defpair,
Who drive a loathfome traffic, gage and fpan,
The tender ties of father, hufband, friend,
And buy the muscles and the bones of man?
And each endures, while yet he draws his breath,
A ftroke as fatal as the fcythe of death.
The fable warrior, frantic with regret
Of her he loves, and never can forget,
Lofes in tears the far-receding fhore,
But not the thought that they must meet no more.
Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow,
What has he left that he can yet forego?
Yes, to deep fadnefs fullenly refign'd,
He feels his body's bondage in his mind;
Puts off his gen'rous nature, and, to fuit
His manners with his fate, puts on the brute.
Oh moft degrading of all ills that wait
On man, a mourner in his best estate l
All other forrows virtue may endure,
And find fubmiffion more than half a cure;
Grief is itself a med'cine, and bestow'd
T'improve the fortitude that bears a load;
To teach the wand'rer, as his woes increase,
Her fons to pour it on the fartheft north † :The path of wisdom, all whofe paths are peace.
108. The Propagation of the Gospel in Greenland. Cow PER. AND ftill it Spreads. See Germany fend forth
+ The Moravian miffionaries in Greenland. Vide Krantz.
But flaviv-virtue dreads it as her grave;
Patience itself is meannefs in a flave:
Or if the will and fovereignty of God
Bid fuffer it awhile, and kits the rod;
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,
To quit the blifs thy rural fcenes beftow,
To feck a nobler amidft fcenes of woe;
To traverse feas, range kingdoms, and bring home,
Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome,
But knowledge fuch as only dungeons teach,
And frap the chain the moment when you may. And only fympathy like thine could reach;
Narure imprints upon whate'er we fee,
That has a heart and life in it, Be free!
The beatis are charter'd-neither age nor force
Can quell the love of freedom in a horfe :
Je breaks the cord that held him at the rack,
And, confcious of an unencumber'd back,
Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein,
Loofe fly his forclock and his ample mane;
Refponfive to the diftant neigh he neighs,
Nor ftops till, overleaping all delays,
He finds the pafture where his fellows graze.
§ 110. On Liberty, and in Praise of Mr. Howard.
OH could I worship aught beneath the skics,
That earth hath feen or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, facred Liberty, fhould ftand,
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand.
With fragrant turf and flow'rs as wild and fair
As ever drefs'd a bank, or fcented fummer air.
Duly as ever on the mountain's height
The peep of morning fhed a dawning light;
Again, when evening in her fober vest
Drew the grey curtain of the fading Weft;
My foul should yield thee willing thanks and praife
For the chief bleffings of my fairest days:
But that were facrilege-praife is not thine,
But his who gave thee, and preferves thee mine:
Elfe I would fay, and as I fpake bid fly
A captive bird into the boundless sky,
This iple realm adores thee-thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home;
We feel thy force ftill active, at this hour
Enjoy immunity from priestly pow'r;
While confcience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no fuperior but the God the fears.
Propitious Spirit, vet expunge a wrong
Thy rites have fuffer'd, and our land, too long;
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts that fhare
The fears and hopes of a commercial care :
Prifons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt;
But fhipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire and flood,
Are mighty mifchiefs, not to be withstood;
And honeft merit ftands on flipp'ry ground,
Where covert guile and artifice abound:
Let just reftraint, for public peace defign'd,
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind;
The fee of virtue has no claim to thee,
But let infolvent innocence go free.
Patron of elfe the most defpis'd of men,
Accept the tribute of a ftranger's pen ;
Verfe, like the laurel its immortal meed,
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed:
I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame
(Charity chofen as my theme and aim)
I must incur, forgetting Howard's name.
Bleft with all wealth can give thee-to refign
Jos doubly fweet to feelings quick as thine;
That grief, fequefter'd from the public stage,
Might fmooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal
The boldeft patriot might be proud to feel.
Oh that the voice of clamour and debate,
That pleads for peace till it difturbs the ftate,
Were hufh'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea,
The poor thy clients, and Heaven's fmile thy fee!
$111. On Domestic Happiness, as the Friend of
Virtue, and of the falfe Good-nature of the
DOMESTIC happiness, thou only blifs
Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall!
Tho' few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure,
| Or, tafting, long enjoy thee; too infirm
Or too incautious to preferve thy fweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which negle&t
Or temper fheds into thy cryftal cup.
Thou art the nurfe of virtue. In thine arms
She fmiles, appearing, as in truth fhe is,
Heaven-born, and deftin'd to the fkies again.
Thou art not known where Pleasure is adoré,
That reeling goddefs with the zonelefs waift
And wand ring eyes, ftill leaning on the arm
Of Novelty, her fickle frail fupport;
For thou art meek and conftant, hating charge,
And finding in the calm of truth-tied love
Joys that her ftormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what fhipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown,
Till proftitution elbows us afide
In all our crowded streets, and fenates feem
Conven'd for purposes of empire lefs
Than to releafe th' adult'refs from her bond!
Th' adult'refs! what a theme for angry verfe,
What provocation to th' indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! But I d'flain
The nauseous talk to paint her as fhe is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glo:ying in her thame.
No. Let her pafs; and, charioted along,
In guilty splendour thake the public ways:
The frequency of crimes has wafh'd them white;
And verte of mine fhali never brand the wretch
Whom matrons now of character unfmirch'd,
And chafte themselves, are not afham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time
Not to be pafs'd: and the that had renounc'd
Her fex's honour, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for Prudery's fake,
But Dignity's refentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif
Defirous to retura, and not receiv'd;
But was an whole fome rigour in the main,
And taught th' unblemish'd to preferve with care.
That purity, whole lots was lofs.of all.
Men too were nice in honour in thofe days,
And judg'd offenders well: and he that tharp'd,
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd,
Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious. He that fold | Bestrides the wint'ry flood, in which the moon
His country, or was flack when the requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
Paid with the blood that he had bafely spar'd
The price of his default. But now
We are become so candid and fo fair,
So liberal in conftruction, and fo rich
In Chriftian charity, a good-natur'd age!
That they are fafe; finners of either fex [bred,
Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well drefs'd, well
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To pafs us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit ftill, that the admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applaufe.
But fhe has burnt her masks, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her shifts
And fpecious femblances heve loft their use.
§ 112. On the Employments of what is called an
HOW various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who juftly in return
Efteems that bufy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Drefs'd to his tafte, inviting him abroad-
Can he want occupation who has thefe ?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me therefore, ftudious of laborious cafe,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not waste it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When He fhall call his debtors to account
From whom are all our blethings-bufinefs finds
Ev'n here. While fedulous I seek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,
The mind he gave me; driving it, though flack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By cauffes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior felf,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and fupplies it, and who feeks
A focial, not a diffipated life-
Has bufinefs; feels himself engag'd t' achieve
No unimportant, though a filent task.
A life all turbulence and noife may feem
To him that leads it wife, and to be prais'd;
But wifdom is a pearl with moft fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in ftorms
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly industrious, a difgraceful prize.
113. The Poft comes in-the News-paper is
read-The World contemplated at a distance.
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noify world, [locks,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the clofe-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the deftin'd inn;
And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: meffenger of grief
Perhaps to thoufands, and of joy to fome;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houfes in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epiftles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's checks
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous fighs of abfent fwains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect
His horfe and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! ufher'd in
With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can say
What are its tidings: have our troops awak'd?
Or do they fill, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th Atlantic wave?
Is India free and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wifdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet th' imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.
Now ftir the fire and clofe the fhutters faft,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa, round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hiffing urn
Throws up a fteamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not fuch his ev'ning who with fhining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and fqueez'd,
And bor'd with elbow-points thro' both his fides,
Outfcolds the ranting actor on the ftage.
Nor his, who patient ftands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen all tranquillity and fmiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticife, that holds
Inquifitive attention while I read
Faft bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themfelves, yet fear to break-
What is it but a map of bufy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit, fee,
The feals of office glitter in his eyes; [heels,
He climbs, he pants, he grafps them. At his
Clote at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dext'rous jerk foon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lofe them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in foft
Meanders lubricate the course they take:
The modeft fpeaker is afham'd and griev'd
T'engrofs a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bafhfulness! it claims at least this praife,
The dearth of information and good fenfe
That it foretels us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
There forefts of no meaning fpread the page
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleasantry amufe us there,
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confufion-rofes for the cheeks
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothlefs, ringlets for the bald,.
Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their fweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons and city feafts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journeys, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleafant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at fuch a world: to fee the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd:
To hear the roar the fends through all her gates
At a fafe diftance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at eafe
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am ftill. The found of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And fpreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repaft for me!
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Difcover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and fhare in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is ftill at home.
§ 114. A Fragment. MALLET. FAIR morn afcends: fresh zephyr's breath Blows lib'ral o'er yon bloomy heath, Where, fown profufely, herb and flow'r Of balmy fmell, of healing pow'r, Their fouls in fragrant dews exhale, And breathe fresh life in ev'ry gale. Here fpreads a green expanfe of plains, Where, fweetly-penfive, Silence reins;
And there, at utmost stretch of eye,
A mountain fades into the fky;
While, winding round, diffus'd and deep,
A river rolls with founding fweep.
Of human art no traces near,
I feem alone with nature here!
Here are thy walks, O facred Health!
The Monarch's blifs, the Beggar's wealth,
The feas'ning of all good below,
The fov'reign friend in joy or woe.
O Thou, most courted, moft defpis'd,
And but in abfence duly priz'd!
Pow'r of the foft and rofy face!
The vivid pulfe, the vermeil grace,
The fpirits, when they gayeft thine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!
O fun of life, whofe heavenly ray
Lights up and cheers our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The ftorm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till nature, with thy parting light,
Repofes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophied roofs of ftate,
Abodes of fplendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep,
Hot Riot would his anguifh fteep,
But toffes through the midnight fhade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to fhady cell,
Where temp'rance, where the Muses dwell,
Thou oft art feen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn;
Or, on the brow of mountain high,
In filence feafting ear and eye,
With fong and prospect which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.
But when the fun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat fits fervent on the plain,
With Thirst and Languor in his train
(All nature fick'ning in the blaze),
Thou in the wild and woody maze
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighb'ring fteep,
Wilt find betines a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolnefs has her feat.
There plung'd amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive, in his airy mood,
To ev'ry murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quiv'ring in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The diftant woodman's echoing ftroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vifion led,
He holds high converfe with the Dead;
Sages or Poets. See, they rife!
And fhadowy skim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.