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And WIGHT, who checks the west'ring tide,
For thee consenting heav'n has each bestow'd, A fair attendant on her sov'reign pride :
To thee this bleft divorce she ow'd,
For thou haft made her valesthy lov'd, thy last abode!
Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O foul-enforcing goddess, stood !
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed DANE,
Or ROMAN's self o'erturn’d the fane,
Or in what heav'n left age it fell,
'Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the muse,
yon braided cloud that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd fky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model fiill remains.
There happier than in illands.blest,
Or bow'rs by spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our ALBION's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Here their conforted Druids fing
Their triumphs to th’immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn, delighted and amaz’d,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Ev'n now, before his favour'd
In Gothic pride it seems to rise !
Yet Grecia’s graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choote,
Each sphere found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heav'n's purer mold contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's fight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through ev'ry age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar ftand;
Now foothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe CONCORD's focial form to gain :
Concord whose myrtle wand can steep
Ev'n ANGER's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bofom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm ;
Her let our fires and matrons boar
Welcome to BRITAIN's ravag'd shore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till in one loud applauding found;
The nations thout to her around.
O, how fupremely art thou bleft,
- Thou, lady, who shalt rule the west!
THE KISS. HUMID seal of soft affections,
Tend'reft pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections,
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss! Speaking filence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infant's play, Dove-like fondness, chatte concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day!
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
When ling’ring lips no more muft join ;
What words can ever speak affection
So thrilling and sincere as thine?
THE COUNTRY APOTHECARY. BUT foon a loud and hafiy fummons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls:
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and bus'ness, bustle and conceit;
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,
With speed that, ent'ring, speaks his hafte to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and phylic in his eye;
A potent quack, long vers’d in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murd’rous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is-neglect.
Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer!
In haste he seeks the bed where mis’ry lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inur'd to pain,
And long, unheeded, knows remonftrance vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man, and mutely haftens to the grave.
'Twas at the royal feast, for persia won,
By PHILIP's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero fate
On his imperial throne :
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should defert in arms be crown'd.)
The lovely THAIS, by his fide,
Satę, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserve the fair.
TIMOTHEUS, plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes afcend the sky,
And heav'nly joys inspire.
The song began from JOVE;
Who left his blissful feats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love.)
À dragon's fiery form bely'd the god :
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fáir oLYMPIA press’d:
And while he fought her snowy breast:
Then, round her slender waist he curi'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a fov’reign of the
The list’ning crowd admire the lofty found;
A present deity, they shout around:
A present deity the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musiciansung,
Of BACCHUS ever fair, and ever young:
The jolly god, in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flush'd with a purple grace
He shews his honest face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes ! he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did firft ordain:
Bacchus' bleflings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soĻDIER's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Sooth'd with the found, the KING grew vain ;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he
flew the flain.
The master saw the madness rife;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eves;
And, while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.''
He chose a mournful muse,
Soft Pity to infuse :
He sung DARIUS great and good,
By too fevere a fate,
Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,
Fall’n, from his high eftate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed :
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcaft looks the joyless victor fate,
Revolving in his alter'd foui,
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a figh he stole ;
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smil'd, to fee
That Love was in the next degree :
'Twas but a kindred found to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he footh'd his soul to pleasures.
WAR, he fung, is toil and trouble ;
Honour but an empty bubble ;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying ::
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think! O, think! it worth enjoying :