Obrazy na stronie

To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forfaken, friendless, fhall ye fly?
Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic shore?

Of bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

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When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians fpurn her duft;
Perhaps ev❜n Britain's utmost shore
Shall ceafe to blush with ftranger's gore,
See Arts her favage fons controul,

And Athens rifing near the pole !
'Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madriefs tears them from the land.


Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.

Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,

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In ev'ry age, in ev'ry ftate!

Still, when the luft of tyrant power fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.

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CHORUS of Youths and Virgins.


H Tyrant Love! haft thou poffeft

The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,

And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame:
Love, foft intruder, enters here,
But entring learns to be fincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,
Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
The mild and gen'rous breaft?..


- Love's purer flames the Gods approve ;
The Gods and Brutus bend to love:
Brutus for abfent Portia fighs,

And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? -a tranfient gust,
Spent in a fudden storm of lust,

A vapour fed from wild defire,

A wand'ring, felf-confuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite;
And burn for ever one;

Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.

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VER. 9. Why, Virtue, etc.] In allufion to that famous

conceit of Guarini,

"Se il

peccare è sì dolce, etc.



Oh fource of ev'ry focial tye,

United with, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,

As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend?
Whether his hoary fire he fries,


While thousand grateful thoughts arise;


Or meets his fpouse's fonder eye;

Or views his fmiling progeny ;

What tender paffions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move?

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.


Hence guilty joys, distastes, furmizes,
Hence falfe tears, deceits, difguifes,
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprizes;

Fires that fcorch, yet dare not fhine:
Pureft love's unwasting treasure,
Conftant faith, fair hope, long leifure,
Days of eafe, and nights of pleafure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.





HAPPY the man, whofe with and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,
Whose trees in fummer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound fleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; fweet recreation;
And innocence, which moft does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.




This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old. P.




The dying Christian to his SOUL.

O D E*.


VITAL fpark of heav'nly flame

Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, cease thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.


Hark! they whisper; Angels fay,
Sifter Spirit, come away.
What is this abforbs me quite ?
Steals my fenfes, huts my fight,

Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?

III. The

This ode was written in imitation of the famous fonnet of Hadrian to his departing foul; but as much fuperior in fenfe and fublimity to his original, as the Chriftian Religion is to the Pagan.

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