O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind!
O rise! and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train!

The British Lion, goddess sweet,

Lies stretch'd on earth, to kiss thy feet, And own thy holier reign.

Let others court thy transient smile,
But come to grace thy western isle,
By warlike Honour led;

And while around her ports rejoice,
While all her sons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!



FAREWELL, for clearer ken design'd,

The dim-discover'd tracts of mind; Truths which, from action's paths retir'd, My silent search in vain requir'd! No more my sail that deep explores; No more I search those magic shores; What regions part the world of soul, Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll: If e'er I round such fairy field, Some pow'r impart the spear and shield At which the wizard Passions fly; By which the giant Follies die!

Farewell the porch whose roof is seen Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green: Where Science, prank'd in tissu'd vest, By Reason, Pride, and Fancy, drest,

Comes, like a bride, so trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade.

Youth of the quick uncheated sight,
Thy walks, Observance, more invite!
O thou who lov'st that ampler range,
Where life's wide prospects round thee change,
And, with her mingling sons allied,
Throw'st the prattling page aside,
To me, in converse sweet, impart
To read in man the native heart;
To learn, where Science sure is found,
From nature as she lives around;
And, gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the lessons taught before;
Alluring from a safer rule,

To dream in her enchanted school:
Thou, Heav'n, whate'er of great we boast,
Hast blest this social science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the charmful task,
In pageant quaint, in motley mask;
Behold, before her musing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rise;
While, ever varying as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her glass;
With these the white-rob'd maids combine;
And those the laughing Satyrs join!
But who is he whom now she views,
In robe of wild contending hues ?
Thou by the Passions nurs'd; I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whose name is known

To Britain's favour'd isle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit ;
There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd, attends thy side!

By old Miletus,* who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades;
By himt whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castalia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore;

Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her sire betray'd,

O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy seal!

Let some retreating Cynic find

Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind:

The Sports and I this hour agree,

To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances.

+ Cervantes.

↑ Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Satillane, who died in Pa ris in the year 1745.



WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd;
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd: his eyes on fire,
In lightnings, own'd his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still, through all the song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft reponsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope enchanted smil'd,and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had she sung ;-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, down;
And, with a with'ring look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum, with furious heat;"

And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, [his head, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd; Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul; And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

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