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By time exhausted, with a fiery store
Suffice at length to feed the flames no more ;
Or whether, while the ruin seems to sleep,
He hoards fresh matter in his caverns deep,
Prepard (tremendous thought!) with doubled rage,
To spread destruction in a future age.

The face of nature now is chang’d around,
The hills appear with whitning olives crown'd.
And Bacchus, who so long the coast had fed,
Again delights to lift his festive head,
With trembling steps resumes his former stand,
And clothes once inore with blushing vines the land.





Oh Tu, severi Religio loci,
Quocunque gaudes nomine (non leve
Nativa nam certè fluenta

Numen habet, veteresque sylvas;
Præsentiorem & conspicimus Deum
Per invias rupes, fera per juga,
Clivosque præruptos, sonantes

Inter aquas, nemorumque noctem;
Quàm si repòstus sub trabe citrea
Fulgeret auro, & Phidiacâ manu)
Salve vocanti ritè, fesso et

Da placidam juveni quietem.

Quod si invidendis sedibus, & frui
Fortuna sacrâ lege silentii
Vetat volentem, me resorbens

In medios violenta fluctus:
Saltem remoto des, Pater, angulo
Horas senectæ ducere liberas;
Tutumque vulgari tumultu

Surripias, hominumque curis. [1]

[1] Thus imitated by a Gentleman of Sunderland:

Hear, awful genius of the solemn grove,

(And say what title best can please thine ear; Those age-struck woods and native rivers prove

No common genius bears dominion here.
The trackless rocks, the mountain's savage height,

The broken cliff, inviting fell despair,
The deep-brown grove where reigns eternal night,

And sounding water-falls, the God declare.
In glory more than if the Citrean beam,

And Phidian art its nicest aid bestow'd,
Or high-wrought gold had shed its richest gleam,

To deck the fane of the recumbent God;)
Hear then, dread genius of the solemn grove!

Now be thy mighty power on me confest,
Propitious to thy suppliant's wishes prove,

And give him to the placid joys of rest:
But, if stern Fortune shou'd forbid my flight,

To taste the sweets of sacred Silence’reign,
Shou'd she recal me from the darling sight,

And dash amid the storms of life again;

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At least allow to my declining age

A calm retreat from all the cares of life,
Safe from the busy world's tumultuous rage,

And far beyond the reach of vulgar strife,

Another Imitation of this Ode (I believe by Mr. Seward, the elegant Anecdotist) appeared in the European Magazine for 1791; and, as it varies in measure from the preceding, the Reader may not be displeased with its insertion.

Oh, Genius of this hallow'd place
(The seat of sanctity and grace,)
Whatever name shall greet thy ear,
Or holy, reverend, or severe,
(For ah! no common power pervades
These sacred streams, these antique glades ;)
And sure we more conspicuous see
The presence of the Deity
In rocks abrupt, in foaming floods,
u In the meridian night of woods*!
Than if, on throne of ivory placd,
With gold and gems profusely grac'd,
In robe of Tyrian purple dress’d,
He Phidias magic hand confess'd.
O! thus invokd, propitious Power,
The rest of one, one short-liv'd hour
On thy poor suppliant bestow,
A wand'rer through this wild of woe.
For, ah! him cruel fate impels
To quit thy calm and peaceful cells,
Where Solitude and Silence reign,
With all the Virtues in their train
(Where Contemplation, nymph serene,
With gentle step and placid mien,
With Saints and Confessors of old
High sacred converse seem to hold;
Where Piety, with up-cast eyes,
Dissolves in holy ecstasies :

* Mr. Merry,

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