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Though man's ungrateful, or though fortune frown;
Is the reward of worth a song, or crown?
Nor yet unrecompens'd are virtue's pains,
Good Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns.
On each condition disappointments wait,
Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate:
Nor dare repine, though early friendship bleed,
From love, the world, and all its cares, he's freed.
But know, Adversity's the child of God;
Whom Heaven approves of most, most feel her rod.
When smooth old Ocean, and each storm's asleep,
Then ignorance may plough the watery deep;
But when the demons of the tempest rave,
Skill must conduct the vessel through the wave.
Sidney, what good man envies not thy blow?
Who would not wish Anytus for a foe?
Intrepid virtue triumphs over fate,
The good can never be unfortunate :
And be this maxim graven in thy mind,
“The height of virtue is to serve mankind.”
But when old age has silver'd o'er thy head, When men’ry fails, and all thy vigour's fled, Then may'st thou seek the stillness of retreat, Then hear aloof the human tempest beat;
Allay the pangs of age, and smooth thy grave.'
O PARENT of each lovely Muse!
Thy spirit o'er ny soul diffuse;
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide ;
To offer to thy turf-built-shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine; .
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph! with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd;
Waving in thy snowy hand
· An all-commanding magic wand;
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow;
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea:
While the vast, various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desert, hail !
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water, you reside ;
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between :
Midst forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke ;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev’n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd coll;
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o’erlay the floor;
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream;
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove ;
Till suddenly awak'd, I bear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear ;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-soothing sound !
Me, goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court;
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly,trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads,
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List’ning to the shepherd's song.
Yet not these flowery fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ;
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy !
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh;
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of wo;
To Gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek.
Or to some Abbey's mouldering tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire ;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom heat ;
The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear :
Give me another horse! I'cry:
Lo, the base Gallic squadrons fly.
Whence is this rage ?-what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war; *
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where tumult and destruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead ;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joys surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield.
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks, and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun.
The pangs of absence, O remove !
For thou can'st please me near my love: -
Can'st fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss;
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence !
When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose ; When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale; When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks ; When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold; At every season let my ear Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. O warm, enthusiastic maid! Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane, To utter an unballow'd strain; Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing, O hear our prayer! O hither come, From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave! O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, fill'd with inexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre! Who, with some new, unequall'd song, May rise above the rhyming throng; O'er all our listening passions reign, O’erwhelm our souls with joy and pain : With terror shake, with pity move, Rouse with revenge, or melt with love. O deign t'attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottoes talk;