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Thus Gratitnde to loftiest transport fires, And Tuscan fancy yields to what the truth in. spires.

In proud array thy guardian forests rise,

The vigorous products of their genial home, And, whilst thy mountains touch the sun-bright

skies, Half o'er their heights majestick mantles roam. Nor wants sweet Poesy her sweetest range, By glen and dale, by bower and murmuring

brook ; . . Toil has his field, and Yeomanry his grange,

Whilst on his down the Shepherd casts his crook, O’er many a lowland Eden glad to gaze, And on his Dorick reed to listening Phillis plays. Thy varying Ether's rolling mirror, shine

Rivers that silver-streak the verdant plains, Nor seldom pass beside some fane divine,

Where hoar Antiquity sublimely reigns To tell the glories of thy elder days;

Or to the Muses courteous still, afford To them, that emulate ingenuous praise,

The cloister'd walk and hospitable board, And oft thy floods beneath those burdens bend, Which seas triumphant waft: as far as seas extend, No Norman bulwarks, Cambrian castles, now Frown in their strength, nor thence the embate

tled throng, Children of blood, as fierce a torrent flow

As that which thunders Snowdon's side along; But there the kids disport, or pensive seers Stray pleased though pensive, and with profit

stray, Conscious that, after the long lapse of years,

Illumined more and more by wisdom's ray, Here Liberty at last her throne has placed, And views her floating guards lords of the watery

waste.

Far as her eye from this her gorgeous tower

Darts o'er the world she sighs to see mankind, So many groan beneath the despot's power,

So widely spectral horrours rack the mind. . She knows its power, she best its power expands,

Its warmth increases, and unclouds its sight; Here then she sees Religion's fostering hands Drop Hope's best balm, distribute Faith's besť

light, Whilst human law weds sacred Charity, And tells the wondering earth that mind is here

most free.

Thus a far famous sage thrice ten years pass'd,

With all a lovers zeal his country praised; But, ah the fall! the sage grown blind at last

Fell as he shook the column he had raised. So Samson fell, but not alone. We stand

Strong with augmented liberty and fame, And more than ever the proud world command, Fresh blooming still from Envy's traitourous

aim, Nor would we pillage Peerage, Church and

Throne,. . i To favour low-born pride, and make the world

our own.

Firm English honesty, sound English sense,

Touch rights existing, holy ground, with care, Scorn Envy's fraud, pert Vanity's pretence,

Nor dash to dust what Wisdom should repair. Hence History proud on Britain's acts to wait, Has told the world she can her rights main- .

tain, From tyrant-power with temper save her state,

With ease majestick cast her papal chain, Too wise for hurry, too humane for rage, Dauntless as youth’s blind zeal, and cool as well

taught age.

TVhat shall I Read?

AN ODE.

Written in 1780, experimentally—in order to ascertain how

the observation, that poetry is imitation, could apply to lyrical composition: I therefore as soon as I came into my study, set down, in the above careless way, the real, circumstance of the moment.

'Tis winter, cold and rude,

Heap, heap the warming wood;
The wild wind hums the sullen song to night.

Oh hear that pattering shower!

Haste boy—this gloomy hour Demands relief; the cheerful tapers light.

Though now my cot around

Still roars the Wintery sound, Methinks 'tis Summer by this festive blaze!

My books, companions dear,

In seemly ranks appear,
And glisten to my fire's far-flashing rays.

Her hairy length outspread,

See Chloe sleeping laid, Whilst whisker'd Tabby, purring sits beside:

My romping babes at rest

With perfect'leisure blest, Where shall I now my letter'd feast provide ?

Shall I my gay MONTAIGNE,

· Pursue thy rambling vein, And hunt for wisdom in thy motley maze?

Or, with a brow of care,

Think deep with thee Bruyere, And ponder man in all his mystick ways?

Shall TEMPLE skill'd to please :

In prose, whose graceful ease Wins half the glory from the Poet's toil,

Ambition's pang controul,

And fix my fervent soul Where rural pleasures best her cares beguile ?

Or shall I, couch-reclined

To Cowley yield my mind, When the sweet bard forgets his strains of art,

And to the tender lays,

That paint Retirements praise,
Bids all his soul its moral charms impart?

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