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The cruel winds have hurld upon the coast
Some hapless bark ; while sacred pity melts
The gen'ral eye, or terror's icy hand
Smites tbeir distorted limbs and horrent hair :
While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam through the shatter'd vessel, sh rieks aloud,
As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arus
For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down. O deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature giv'n
To mutual terror and compassion's tears?
No sweetly-melting sofiness, wbich attracts,
D'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end ?-
Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour,
Slow through that studious glooin thy pausing eye,
Led by the glimm’ring taper, moves around
The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame
For Grecian Heroes, where the present pow'r
Of hear'n and earth surveys th' inimorial page,
E'en as a father blessieg, while he reads
The praises of his son; if then ihy soul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame:
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the base, heroic states
Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown
Of curs’d ambition;—when the pious band
Of youths that fought for freedom and their sires
Lie side by side in gore;- when ruffian pride
Usurps the throne of justice, turns the pomp
of public pow'r, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To slavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee;—when honour'd urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust
And storied arch, to glut the coward rage

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Of regal envy, strew the public way
With hallow'd ruins !-when the muse's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom, wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,
Or female superstition's midnight pray'r ;-
When ruthless rapine from the hand of time
Tears the destroying sithe, with súrer blow
To sweep the works of glory from their base;
Till desolation n'er the grass-grown street
Espands his raven-wings, and up the wall,
Where senates once the pride of monarchs doom'd,
Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds
That clasp the mould'ring column :-thus defac'd,
Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills
Thy boating bosom, when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arni
In fancy hurls the ihunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;-
Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? Or youldst thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrow's, for the lot
Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft bis gold-invested front,

within himself, “ I am a king,
“ And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of wo
• Intrude upon mine ear?”- The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught
Of servitude and folly, have not yet,
Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!
Defild to such a depth of sordid shame
The native honours of the human soul,
Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.


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Say, what is taste, but the internal pow'rs Active, and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust From things deform’d, or disarrang'd, or gross ly species? This not gems, 'nór stores of gold, Nor purple staie, nor culture can bestow But God alone, when first bis active liand Iinprints the sacred bias of the soul. He, nrighty Parent! wisé and just in all, Free as the rital breeze, or light of heav'n, Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain Who journeys homeward from a summer-day's Long labour, why forgetful of his toiis And due repose, he loiters to behold The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds. O'er all the western sky: Full soon, I ween, Mis rude expression, and untutord airs, Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold The form of beauty smiling at his heart, How lovely! how commanding! But the ugh Ileava

In every breast háth sown these early seeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair culture's kind parental aid, Without enlivening suns, and genial show'rs, And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Or yield the harvest fromis'd in its spring. Nor yet will every soil with equal stores R#pay the tiller's labour; or attend His will, obs-quious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel. Ditf'rent inindş Incline to cliff'rent ohjects: one pursuis The vast alone, the wonderful, ihe wild; Another sighs for harmony, and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning frys

The arch of heav'n, and thunders rock the ground;
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from his lowest. bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad
From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of some flow'ry stream,
To spread his careless limbs, amid the cool
Of plantain shades, and to the list'ning deer,
The tale of slighted vows and lave's disdain
Resounds, soft warbling, all the live-long day:
Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves ;
And hill and date with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men.


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O BLEST of heav'n, whom not the languid songs
Of luxury, the Siren! not the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honour, .can seduce lo leave
Those ever

er-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature, fair imagination.culls

To charm th’enliven’d soul! what though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state :
Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler stale
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,'
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorņs

The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marbles, and the sculptur'd gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor then partakes Fresh pleasure only : for th' attentive mind By this harmonious action on her pow'rs Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair-inspir'd delight: her temper'd pow'rs Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien, But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nalure's form, where negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that eternal Majesty that weigh'd The world's foundations; if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs? Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the

n's unwearied course, The elements and seasons: all declare For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd

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