For, blended with the bad, the good And heaven's dire vengeance ftruck alike The wrath divine pursues the wretch, She gives the furer blow. The THIRD ODE of the FOURTH Book of HORACE, PARAPHRASED. WHOM firft, Melpomene, thy eye With friendly afpect views, Shall from his cradle rife renown'd, And facred to the Mufe. Nor to the Ifthmian games his fame Nor fhall he wear the verdant wreath, Nor in the wide Elæan plains Fatigue the courfer's speed; Nor through the glorious cloud of duft, Nor, as an haughty victor, mount The Capitolian heights, And proudly dedicate to Jove The trophies of his fights. Becaufe Because his thundering hand in war Has check'd the fwelling tide Of the stern tyrant's power, and broke But by fweet Tyburn's groves and streams His glorious theme pursues, And fcorns the laurels of the war, For thofe that crown the Mufe. There in the most retir'd retreats, To the fweet harp which Sappho touch'd, Or bold Alcæus ftrung. Rank'd by thy fons, Imperial Rome, Among the poet's quire, Above the reach of envy's hand I fafely may aspire. Thou facred Mufe, whofe artful hand Can teach the bard to fing; Can animate the golden lyre, And wake the living ftring: Thou, by whofe mighty power, may fing, In unaccustom'd strains, The filent fishes in the floods, As on their banks the fians, To thee I owe my fpreading fame, Make me their wonder's common theme, And object of their praife, If If firft I ftruck the Lesbian lyre, No fame belongs to me; I owe my honours, when I please, (If e'er I please) to thee. On the approaching CONGRESS of CAMBRAY. YE E patriots of the world, whofe cares combin'd Confult the public welfare of mankind, One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait, And Europe in fuspense attend her fate, Which turns on your great councils; nor refufe To hear the strains of the prophetic Muse; Who fees thofe councils with a generous care Heal the wide wounds, and calm the rage of war; She fees new verdure all the plain o'erfpread, Where the fight burn'd, and where the battle bled. The fields of death a fofter scene disclose, And Ceres fmiles where iron harvests rofe. The bleating flocks along the baftion pafs, And from the awful ruins crop the grafs. Freed from his fears, each unmolested swain, In peaceful furrows cuts the fatal plain; Turns the high bulwark and afpiring mound, And fees the camp with all the feasons crown'd, Beneath each clod, bright burnish'd arms appear; Each furrow glitters with the pride of war; The fields refound and tinkle as they break, And the keen faulchion rings against the rake; At At reft beneath the hanging ramparts laid, Hark! -o'er the feas, the British lions roar Their monarch's fame to every distant shore : Swift on their canvass wings his navies go, Where-ever tides can roll, or winds can blow; Their fails within the arctic circle rife, Led by the stars that gild the northern skies Fair Concord, hail; thy wings o'er Brunswick spread, The The fight ftands ftill-when Brunswick bids it cease, To poise the balance, or to draw the fword; Scarce the Platonic year fhall this renew, Or keep the bright original in view. The FABLE of the YOUNG MAN and his CAT. A Haplefs youth, whom fates averfe had drove To what odd whimsies love inveigles men? O queen of beauty, fince thy Cupid's dart If |