Less is the ardour cold narration gives Or fame historic kindles in the breast, Than when the war in glowing colours lives, And heroes on the canvas field contest; And less energic holy prelates call To penitence than Raphael's pictur'd Paul. Round thy altar musing stand; The sweet enthusiasts deign to inspire, Stamp thou thyself on every line; Bid her every charm unfold, And men reform as they behold. Let vice with gorgon terrors scare, And bid her votaries beware Open Clio's brightest page Where honour's noblest deeds engage! To make her charms still more inflame, Albion, thus thy gifts possessing, To patriots shall her peasants turn, The power descends! from his auspicious nod The temple lives, and shews the present God. Behold! the arts around us bloom, And this muse-devoted dome Rivals the works of Athens and of Rome. FRANCIS FAWKES. 1721,-1777. A Clergyman who was not one of the "righteous overmuch," and translated some of the minor Greek Poets respectably. An Autumnal Ode. YET once more, glorious god of day, O let me warbling court thy stay Thy rays invigorate the spring, Bright summer to perfection bring, The cold, inclement days of winter chear, And make th' Autumnal months the mildest of the year. Ere yet the russet foliage fall, I'll climb the mountain's brow, My friend, my Hayman, at thy call, How sweetly pleasing to behold Forests of vegetable gold! How mix'd the many checker'd shades between The tawny mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green, How splendid all the sky! how still! How mild the dying gale! How soft the whispers of the rill, That wind along the dale! So tranquil Nature's works appear, It seems the sabbath of the year; As if, the summer's labour past, she chose Such is a well spent life, the time When busy days are past, Man verging gradual from his prime, Meets sacred peace at last: His flowery spring of pleasures o'er, And Summer's full blown pride no more, He gains pacific Autumn, meek and bland, And dauntless braves the stroke of Winter's palsy'd hand. For yet a while, a little while, Involved in wintery gloom, And lo! another Spring shall smile, A Spring eternal bloom; Then shall he shine, a glorious guest, In the bright mansions of the blest, Where due rewards on Virtue are bestow'd, And reap the golden fruits of what his Autum sow'd. A Vernal Ode. Sent to his Grace the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, March 12, 1754. BRIGHT God of day, whose genial power Revives the buried seed, That spreads with foliage every bower, With verdure every mead, Bid all thy vernal breezes fly, Diffusing mildness thro' the sky; Give the soft Season to our drooping plains, Sprinkled with rosy dews, and salutary rains, |