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While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread.

I view that oak, the fancied glades among,

By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,

From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

Nigh spher'd in heaven, its native strains could hear; On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung: Thither oft, his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,

With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;
In yain-Such bliss to one alone,

Of all the sons of soul, was known;
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers;

Or curtain'd close such scene from ev'ry future view.

ODE,

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

ODE TO MERCY.

O

THOU,

STROPHE.

who sit❜st a smiling bride

By valour's arm'd and awful side,

Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador❜d;

Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear,

And hid'st in wreaths of flow'rs his bloodless sword! Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground: See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands, Before thy shrine my country's genius stands, And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom ev'n our joys provoke,
The fiend of nature join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blasted road,

And stop'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.

I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to salvage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;

O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tow'r,

To thee we build a roseate bow'r,

Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne!

ODE TO LIBERTY.

STROPHE.

WHO shall awake the Spartan fife,

And call in solemn sounds to life,
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,

At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alcaus', fancy-blest,

Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,

I Alluding to that beautiful fragment of Alcæus.
Εν Μυρίε κλαδι το ξίφος φορήσω,
Ωσπερ Αρμόδιος και Αρισογείτων,
Φιλίαθ' Αρμόδι επω Τεθνηκας,
Νησοις δ' εν Μακάρων Σε φασιν είναι
Εν μυρίς κλαδι το ξίφος φορήσω,
Ωσπερ Αρμόδιος και Αρισογείων,
Οτ' Αθηναίης εν θυσίαις,

Ανδρα Τυραννον ιππαρχον εκαινείην.
Αει Σφων κλεος εσσείαι κατ' αιαν,
Φίλταθ' Αρμοδί', και Αρισογείλων.

D

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