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.
What were life without the muse?
Toil that wisdom would refuse;
Nought of living but the breath;
Days of blood, and nights of death.
Genius of arts! here turn thine eyes,
Behold to thee this temple rise!
Lo! thy priests, a sacred band,

Round thy altar musing stand;

The sweet enthusiasts deign to inspire,
And fill their breasts with thoughts of fire!
When living tables they design,

Stamp thou thyself on every line;
Teach the passions how to glow,
And virtue's comely semblance shew;

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,
Contrast them with the shade of shame!
Let Brutus here each danger brave,
And Cæsar stab, his Rome to save.
There teams of slaves in tyrant's chain
Teach Britons slavery to disdain;
And from Britannia's annals bring
The portraits of a patriot King.

Albion, thus thy gifts possessing,
Shall abound in every blessing;
Greater shall her monarchs be,
Nobler her nobility;

To patriots shall her peasants turn,
And with the love of freedom burn.

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,
While beams thine orb serene,

O let me warbling court thy stay
To gild the fading scene!

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,
To view the scene below:

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
This season's sober calm for blandishing repose.

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,