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His mother's charms a master's prize survey'd,

Owed to the son of Danaë, on that day,

Their mournful fate, when, safe through mightier


He bore Medusa's features fair away.


To him they owed it, sprung from Love
Celestial, and the golden shower;

But when his foe the Goddess, from above,
Sees vanquish'd by her heavenly power,
From plaintive sounds, that o'er a sister wakes
Euryala, while pleased her ears

Drink in their sweetness, lasting laws she makes
To rule the enchanting Art that mortals cheers.
Soon, perfect by her dexterous toil, conferr'd
On man, and hence an honour'd art,

'Tis at the games, in winning accents, heard
To rouse with eager hope Ambition's heart:


Soft as the skilful breath is born

Through well-wrought brass, and slender reeds,

That near the city of the Graces, torn
From their old haunts, the beauteous meads
And woods, Cephisus laving moves along,
Are doom'd to witness festive joy and mirth
In the light dance, and in the fervid song.
Fame without toil is hopeless here on earth:
Yet, unexpected oft, as late † to thee,
Success arrives, and, by Heaven's awful will,
While oft the vain their labour fruitless see,
New prospects sad Despair with comfort fill.

* Orchomenus, a city of Boeotia, sacred to the Graces. + He had gained the victory, as the Scholiast says, after breaking his instrument.



O DOOM'D the barbarous seats with me

To visit, where disturb'd we see

Strife's restless look, and hear his sound,

And the gownmen bustle round;

Say, how much better, in the shade

Of some old elm reposing laid,
In books all irksome thoughts to lose,
And invoke the friendly Muse?

For oft I chase the thoughts away
Of Care, as o'er the fields I stray
In sweet poetic trance, and leave
Scarce the dewy scene at eve.

And in each hill, where'er I go,

Parnassus seems his woods to shew

Outstretch'd; and in each fountain clear

Aganippe cool appear.

Spring and the sportive Nymphs have smiled

To spy me in recesses wild,

Scenting the violets, that there

Load with sweets the morning air;

As, thrown at random on the grass,

I mark the playful current pass,
That, gently check'd by many a stone,
Sends a pleasing plaintive tone.

Thus, when the Season's earliest flowers
Were seen, I pass'd the artless hours,
As long as Zephyr to each eye

Free from clouds preserved the sky.

Nor yet I leave the fields and ease;
Nor Phoebus more would Clitie please.

(Though now the winds are cold and rude, And the summer changing view'd.)

For when on rural labours gay,
On plains and hills, he shoots his ray,
The East, with gold and purple, far
Tinging, from his radiant car;

Wistful I mark his wondrous course ;*
Nor less when, with abated force,

He spreads, where Calpe's rocks aspire,
Sweet his temper'd hues of fire:

Till by degrees his lustre grown
More languid, scarcely now are shown

The gaudy clouds, nor shortly seen,

Fades at once the landscape green.

* This poetical idea is in a rejected stanza of the


"Him have we seen

"With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun.'

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