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Pow'r of the foft and rofy face!
The vivid pulfe, the vermil grace,
The fpirits, when they gayeft fhine,
Youth, beauty, pleafure, all are thine!
O fun of life! whofe heav'nly 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,
Reposes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophy'd roofs of state,
Abodes of fplendid pain and hate;

Fled from the couch, where, in fweet fleep,
Hot Riot would his anguifh fteep,

But toffes thro' the midnight fhade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to fhady cell,

Where Temp'rance, where the Mules 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 profpect 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 steep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolnefs has her feat.
There, plung'd amid the fhadows 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 stroke,
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 fkim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heav'n,
To whom its moral will was giv'n.
Fathers and Friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlight'ning truth, adorning art.

Thus muling in the folemn fhade,
At once the founding breeze was laid:
And nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe;
Dumb filence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bow'r:
When, iffuing from the inmoft wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's Genius good.

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§ 126. - Ode to Evening. Dr. Jos. WARTON HAIL, meek-ey'd maiden, clad in fober gres, Whose foft approach the weary wood-miz loves;

As homeward bent, to kifs his prattling babes,
Jocund, he whiftles thro' the twilight groves.
When Phabus finks behind the gilded hills,
You lightly o'er the mifty meadows walk,
The drooping daifies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurfe the nodding violet's tender stalk.
The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat,
To inmust bow'rs and cooling caverns ran,
Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance;
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.
To the deep wood the clam'rous rooks repair,
Light fkims the fwallow o'er the war'ry feene;
And from the fheep-cote and fresh furrow'd fed
Stout plowmen meet to wreftle on the green.
The fwain that artlefs fings on yonder rock,
His fupping theep and length'ning fhadow ipes,
Pleas'd with the cool, the calm refreshing her,
And with hoarfe humming of unnumber'd s
Now ev'ry paffion fleeps: defponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-reftlefs Pride;
And holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful foul,
Anger and mad Ambition's forms fubfide.
O modeft Evening! oft let me appear
A wand'ring vot'ry in thy penfive train;
Lift'ning to ev'ry wildly-warbling note
That fills with farewell fweet thy dark'ning plain.

$127. Epiflolary Verfes to George Colman, E. written in the Year 1756.


You know, dear George, I'm none of thofe
That condefcend to write in profe:
Infpir'd with pathos and fublime,
I always foar-in doggrel rhyme,
And scarce can afk you how you do,
Without a jingling rhyme or two.
Befides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of eafy writing:
Perhaps the reafon makes it pleafe
Is, that I find its writ with eafe.

I vent a notion here in private,
Which public tafte can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Addison and his Spectator;

Who says (it is no matter where,

The bard indeed full oft complains, But that he says it I can swear)

That rhymes are futters, links, and chains; With easy verse most bards are sinitten, And, when he wants to leap the fence, Because they think ’ris easy written;

Still keeps him pris'ner to the sense. Whereas the easier it appears,

Howe'er in common-place he rage, The greater marks of care it wears ;

Rhyme's like your fetters on the stage, Of which, to give an explanation,

Which when the player once hath wore, Take this by way of illustration:

It makes him only ftrut the more,
The farn’d Mat. Prior, it is said,

While, raving in pathetic strains,
Oft bit his nails and fcratch'd his head, He lakes his legs clank his chains.
And chang'd a thought a hundred times, From rhyme, as from a handsome face,
Because he did not like the rhymes :

Nonsense acquires a kind of grace;
To'make my meaning clear, and please ye, I therefore give it all its scope,
In short, he labour'd to write easy;

That sense may unperceiv'd elope:
And yet, no Critic e'er defines

So M- -rs of bafest tricks His poems into labour'd lines.

(I love a fling at politics) I have a simile will hit him ;

Amuse the nation, court, and king, His verse, like clothes, was made to fit him, With breaking F-kes, and hanging Byng; Which (as no taylor e’er deny’d)

And make each puny rogue a prey, The better fit the more they're try'd.

While they, the greater, flink away. Tho' I have mention'd Prior's name, This fimile perhaps would strike, Think not I aim at Prior's fame:

If march'd with something more alike; 'Tis the result of admiration,

Then take it, drcís'd a second time, To ipend itself in imitation;

In Prior's Ease, and my Sublime. If imitation may be said,

Say, did you never chance to meet Which is in me by nature bred,

A mob of people in the street, And you have better proofs than these, Ready to give the robb'd relief, That I'm idolater of Ease.

And all in haste to catch a thief, Who but a madman would engage

While the fly rogue, who filch'd the prey,
A Poet in the present age?

Too close beset to run away,
Write what we will, our works bespeak us, Stop thief! stop thief I exclaims aloud,
Imitatores, fervum pecus.

And 10 escapes among the crowd?
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,

So Ministers, &c. We travel in the beaten road,

O England, how I mourn thy fate ! The proverb ftill sticks closely by us,

For sure thy losses now are great; Nil di&tum, quod non dictum prius.

Two fuch what Briton can endure, The only comfort that I know

Minorca and the Connoisseur ! Is, that 'twas said an age ago,

To-day *, or ere the sun goes down, Ere Milton foar'd in thought sublime,

Will die the Cenfor, Mr. Town! Ere Pope refind the chink of rhyme,

He dies, whoe'er takes pains to con him, Ere Coleman wrote in style fo pure,

With blushing honours thick upon him; Or the great Two the Connoilleur;

O may his nainc these verses fave, Ere I burlesqu’d the rural cit,

Be these inscrib'd upon Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit,

* Know, Rcader, that on Thursday dy'd And happy in the close connection,

• The Connoiffeur, a Suicide ! T'acquire fome name from their reflection; " Yet think not that his soul is fled, Sn (the fimilitude is trite)

Nor rank him ’mongst the vulgar dead; The moon still thines with borrow'd light, • Howe'er defunct you set him down, And, like the race of modern beaux,

He's only going out of Town.Ticks with the fun for her lac'd clothes.

Methinks, there is no better time To show the ulc I make of rhyme

§ 128. Ole to Arthur Onfrow, Efa. Than now, when I, who, from beginning, Was always fond of couplet-finning, THIS goodly frame. what virtue fo approves, Presuming on good-nature's score,

And testifies the pure ethereal spirit, Thus lay my bantling at your door.

As mild Benevolence ? The first advantage which I fee

She, with her fifter Mercy, ftill awaits Is, that I rambie loole and free:

Beside th cternal throne of Jove,

his grave!

* September 30th, 1756, when Mr. Town, author of the Connoiffeur, a periodical Erray (fince published in four volumes, printed for R. Baldwin, London) took leave of his readers with an humorous account of himself,

+ This elegant Poem was written by a gentleman well known in the learned world, as a token of gratitude for favours conferred on his father during the last war, whole character he has therein affumid.

And age, above

$ 129


O bear me,

And measures forth, with unwithdrawing hand, How headlong Rhone and Ebro, erst disdain'd The blessings of the various year,

With Moorith carnage, quakes through all her Sunshine or show'r, and chides the madding

branches i tempeft.

Soon shall I greet the morn, [name

When Europe sav’d, Britain and George's With her the heav'n-bred nymph meck Charity,

Shall found o'er Flandria's level field, Shall fashion Onslow forth in fairett portrait; And with recording care

Fainiliar in domestic merriment;

claims. Weave the fresh wreath that Aow'ring Virtue Be carol'd loud adown the echoing Danube.

Or by the jolly mariner
But oh, what Mute shall join the band :
He long has fojourn'd in the sacred haunts, The just memorial of fair deeds
And knows each whispåring grot and Still flourishes, and, like th’untainted soul,

Blossoms in freshest
Trod by Apollo and the light-foot Graces. The weary Aesh, and Envy's rankling wound,

Such after years mature How then shall aukward gratitude

In full account ihall be thy meed. And the prefumption of untutor'd duty

O! may your rising hope Attune my numbers, all too rude?

Well principled in ev'ry virtue bloom!
Little he recks the meed of such a song;

Till a fresh-springing stock implore
Yet will I stretch aloof,

With infant hands a grandfire's pow'rful And when I tell of Courtesy,


[sports pursue. Of well-attemper'd Zeal,

Or round your honour'd couch their prattling Of awful Prudence foothing fell Contention,

Where shall the lineaments agree
But in thee, Onslow? You vour wonted leave
Indulge me, nor misdeein a soldier's bold em-

Ode to Melancholy. OGILVIE.

HAIL, queen of thought fublime ! propitious Who in the dissonance of harb'rous war,

power, Long-train’d, revisits oft the facred treasures Who o'er th'unbounded waste art joy'd to roam, Of antique memory;

Led by the moon, when at the midnight hour Or where sage Pindar reins his fiery car, Her pale rays tremble thro' the dusky gloom.

Thro' the vast vaults of heav'n, fecure; Or what the Attic Muse that Homer fillid,

goddess, to thy peaceful seat !

Whether to Hecla's cloud-wrapt brow convey'd, Her other son, thy Milton, taught;

Or lodg'd where mountains screen thy deep reOr range the flow'ry fields of gentle Spenser.

treat, And ever as

allurements vain

Or wand'ring wild thro' Chili's boundless shade. Cherish a feeble fire, and feed my


Say, rove thy steps o'er Lybia's naked waste? Fancy: O could I once

Or seck some diftant folitary fhore? Charm to their melody my thrilling reeds!

Or on the Andes' topmost mountain plac'd, To Henries and to Edwards old, Dread names! I'd meditate the faithful song; Fix'd on foine hanging rock's projected brow,

Do'st fit, and hear the folemn thunder roar? Or tell what time Britannia, Whilom the faireft daughter of old Ocean,

Hear'st thou low murmurs from the distant dome? In loathly disarray, dull eyes,

Or stray thy feet where pale dejected Woe And faded cheek, wept o'er her abject fons:

Pours her long wail from some lamented tomb? Till William, great deliverer,

Hark! yon deep echo strikes the trembling ear! Led on the comely train, gay Liberty, See night's dun curtain wraps the darkfome pole! Religion, matron staid,

O'er heav'n's blue arch yon rolling worlds apo With all her kindred goddesses;

pear, Justice with steady brow,

And rouse to folemn thought th'aspiring foul. Trim Plenty, laureat Peace, and green-hair'd Cominerce,

Olcad my steps, beneath the moon's dim ray,

Where Tadmor stands all-defart and alone! In fowing vest of thousand hues.

While from her tiine-Shook tow'rs, the bird of Fain would I shadow out old Bourbon's pile,


[moan. Tott'ring with doubtful weight, and threat'ning Sounds through the night her long-resounding

cumb'rous fall; Or trace our navy, where in tow'ring pride

Or hear me far to yon dark dismal plain, O'er the wide-fivelling waste it rolls avengeful.

Where fell-ev'd tigers, all athirst for blood, As when collected clouds

How to the defart; while the horrid train Forth from the gloomy south in decp array,

Roains o'er the wild where once great Babel

stood. Athwart the dark’ning landscape throng, Fraught with loud storin's, and thunder's That queen of nations! whofe fuperior call dreadful peal,

Rous'd the broad Eaft, and bid her arms destroy! At which the murd'rer stands aghaft, When warm'd to mirth, let judgment mark her And wasting Riot ill dillombles terror,

And deep reflection dash the lip of joy.

[fall, Short tray'd:


Short is Ambition's gay deceitful dream; Sleeps it more sweetly than the simple fivain, Though wreaths of blooming laarel bind her Beneath some mofly turf that rests his head > brow,

Where the lone widow tells the night her pain, Calin thought dispels the visionary scheme, And eve with dewy tears embalms the dead. And Time's cold breath dissolves the withering The lily, screen'd from ev'ry ruder gale, bough.

Courts not the cultur’d spot where rofes spring: Slow as fome miner saps th’aspiring tow'r, But blows negle&ted in the peaceful rale, When working fecret with destructive aim; And scents the zephyr's balmy breathing wing. Unseen, unheard, thus moves the stealing hour,

The busts of grandeur and the pomp of pow'r, But works the fall of empire, pomp, and name.

Can these bid Sorrow's gushing tears subside? Then let thy pencil mark the traits of man; Can these avail, in that tremendous hour, [tide! Full in the draught be keen-ey'd Hope pour-When Death's cold hand congeals the purple Let flutt'riug Cupids crowd the growing plan :

Ah nol the mighty names are heard no more: Then give one touch, and dath it dcep with shade. Pride's thought sublime, and Beauty's kindling Beneath the plume that flames with glancing Serve but to sport one flying moment o'er,

bloom, rays

And swell with pompuous verse the fcutcheon'd Be Care's deep engines on the soul impressid;

tomb. Pencath the helmet's keen refulgent blaze Let Griet sit pining in the canker'd breast. For me-my Passion ne'er my soul incade,

Nor be the whims of tow'ring Frenzy giv'n ; Let Love's gay sons, a smiling train, appear,

Let Wealth ne'er court me from the peaceful With Beauty pierc'd—yet heedless of the dart: While, closely couch'd, pale fick’ning Envy | Where Contemplation wings the soul to Heav'n!

shade, Whets her fell sting, and points it at the heart. O guard me safe from Joy's enticing snare!

With each extreme that Pleasure tries to hide, Perch'd like a raven on some blasted yew,

The poison'd breath of flow-consuming Care, Let Guilt revolve the thought distracting sin;

The noise of Folly, and the dreams of Pride. Scar'd-while her eyes survey th'ethereal blue Left Heav'n's strong lightning burst the dark But oft, when midnight's sadly folemn knell within.

Sounds long and distant from the sky-topp'd tow'r, Then paint, impending o'er the madd’ning deep, or walk with Milton thro' the dark obscure.

Calm let me fit in Prosper's lonely cell *, That rock, where heart-struck Sappho, vainly brave,

Thus, when the transient dream of life is ficd, Stood firm of soul;-then from the dizzy steep

Mav some fad friend recall the former years; Impetuous sprung, and dath’d the boiling wave. Then stretch'd in silence o'er my dusty bed, Here, wrapt in studious thought, let Fancy rove,

Pour the warm gulh of sympathetic tears ! Still prompt to mark Suspicion's secret snare; To see where Anguilh nips the bloom of Love, Or trace proud Grandeur to the domes of Care. $ 130. Ode to the Genius of Shakspeare. Should e'er Ambition's tow'ring hopes infiame,


I. 1. Let judging Reason draw the veil alide; Or, fir'd with envy at some mighty name, RAPT from the glance of mortal eye, Read o'er the monument that tells-He dy'd. Say, bursts thy Genius to the world of light? What are the ensigns of imperial fway?

Seeks it yon ftar-bespangled iks? What all that Fortune's' lib'ral hand has Or ikims its fields with rapid fight? brought?

Or mid yon plains where Fancy strays, Teach they the voice to pour a sweeter lay?

Courts it the balmy breathing gale ? Or rouse the soul to more exalted thought ?

Or where the violee pale

Droops o'er the green-embroider'd strcam ; When bleeds the heart as Genius blooms un

Or where young Zephyr stirs the rustling prays, known?

Lies all-diffolv'd in fairy dream. When melts the eve o'er Virtue's mournful bier? O'er yon black defart's unfrequented round Not Wealth, but Pity, swells the bursting groan, See'st thou where Nature treads the deepening Noc Pow'r, but whisp’ring Nature, prompts the gloom,

Sits on yon hoary tow'r with ivy crown'd, Say, gentle mourner, in yon mouldy vault, Or wildly wails o'er thy lamented tomb; Where the wori fattens on some scepter'd brow, Hear'tit thou the solemn music wind along? Beneath that roof with sculptur'd marble fraught, Or thrills thc warbling note in thy mellifluous Why sleeps unmoy'd the breathless dust below? fony i

• Sce Shakefpeare's Tempet.


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Oft, while on earth, 'twas thine to rove The pale-ey'd genius of the shade
Where'er the wild-cy'd goddess lov’d to roam, Led thy bold step to Prosper's magic bow'r,
To trace, fcrene, the gloomy grove,

Whofe voice the howling winds obey'd,
Or haunt incek Quiet's fimpli domne;

Whoie dark spell chain'd the rapid hour; Still hov’ring round the Nine appear,

Then rose ferere the sca-girt ille, That pour the soul transporting itrain;

Gay scenes, by Fancy's touch refin'd, Join'd to the Loves gay train,

Glow'd to the musing mind : The loote-rob'd Graces ērown'd with flow'rs, Such visions bless the hermit's dream, The light-wving'd gales that lead the vernal year, When hov’ring angels prompt his placid smile, And wake the rofy-fcatur'd hours.

Or paint some bigh ecstatic theme. O'er all bright Fancy's beamy radiance thone,

Then flamid Miranda on th’enraptur'd gaze, How flam’d thy boium as her charins reveal !

Then sail'd bright Ariel on the bat’s fieet wing ; Her fire-clad cye fublime, her starry zone,

Or starts the litt'ning throng in still amaze! Her treiles loote that wanton'd on the gale, The wild note trembling on th’aërial string! On thee the goddess fix'd her ardent look,

The form, in Heav'n's resplendent vesture gay, Then from her glowing lips thcsc melting ac- Floats on the mantling cloud, and pours tha cents broke:

melting lay"

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To thee, my fav’rite fon, belong

O lay me near yon limpid stream, • The lays that tteal the lisi’ning hour,

Whole murmur' foothes the car of woc! To pour the rapture-darring fong,

There, in fome sweet poctic dream, • To paint gay Hope's Elysium bow'r; Let Fancy's bright Elysium glow! • From Nature's hand to snatch the dart, 'Tis done ;-o'er all the bluthing mcad • To cleave with pangs the bleeding heart, The dark wood shakes his cloudy head; • Or lightly fiveep the trembling itring, Below, the lily-fringed dale • And call the Loves with purple wing

Breathes its mild fragrance on the gale; • From the blue deep, where they dwell While in pastime, all-unseen, • With Naiads in the pcarly cell,

Titania, rob’d in mantle green, • Soft on the fea-born goddess gazel,

Sports on the mofly bank ; her train • Or, in the loose robe's Aoating maze,

Skims light along the gleaming plain, • Diffolv'd in downy flumbers reft;

Or to the flutt'ring breeze unfold • Or flutter o'er her panting breast :

The blue wing streak'd with beamy gold, • Or, wild to melt the yielding foul,

Its pinions op’ning to the bight!-• Let Sorrow, clad in fable stole,

Sav, burfts the vision on my fight? "Slow to thy musing thought appear,

Ah no! by Shakespear's pencil drawn, Or pensive Pity pale,

The beauteous shapes appear, • Or Love's desponding rale

[tear.' While ineck-ey'd Cynthia near [lawn to • Call froin th'intender'd heart the sympathetic illuines with streainy ray the filver-mantled

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Say, whence the magic of thy mind >

But hark! the tempest howls afar ! Why thrilis thy music on the springs of thought? Bursts the wicie whirlwind o'er the pathless waste! Why, at thy pencil's touch refin’d,

What cherub blows the trump of war? Starts into life the glowing draught?

What demon rides the stormy blast: On von der fairy carpet laid,

Red from the lightning's livid blaze, Where beauty pours eternal bloom,

The bleak heath rulhcs on the light, And zephyr breathes perfume;

Then, wrapt in sudden night, There, nightly, to the tranced eye

Difolves. --But ah: what kingly form Profuse the radiant Godeiefs 1tood display'd, Roains the lone delart's defolated maze , With all her imidig otlspring nigh.

Unaw'd! nor heeds the sweeping storin. Sudden, the maniling cliif, the arching wood, Yo pale-cy'd lightnings fpare the cheek of age ! The broider'd mead, the landikip, an: the grove, Vain wih! tho' anguith heaves the burtting Hills, vales, and lky-clipt feas, and torrents rude, groan, Grots, rills, and shades, and bow’rs that breath'd : Deaf as the fint, the marble ear of rage of love,

Hears not the mourner's unavailing moan: All built to light! while glancing on the view, ! Heart-pierc'd he bleeds, and, itung with wild Titania's sporting train bruih'd lightly o’er the defpair,

[hair! dew.

Bares his time-blasted head, and tears his filver

!! Venus.

* Ariel; see the Temp ft. † Sie th: Micfuner Night's Dicam.



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