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By Mr. MASO N.

HERE on my native fhore reclin'd,

, ,
While Silence rules this midnight hour,
I woo thee, GODDESS. On my musing mind

Descend, propitious Power !
And bid these rufling gales of grief fubfide :
Bid my calm'd soul with all thy influence shine;
As yon chaste Orb along this ample tide
Draws the long lustre of her filver line,
While the hufh'd breeze its last weak whisper blows,
And lulls old Humber to his deep repose.

Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent pray'r,
In all thy graceful plainness dreft;
No knot confines thy waving hair,

No zone thy floating veit.
Unsullied Honor decks thine open brow,
And Candor brightens in thy modeft eye:
Thy blush is warm Content's ætherial glow,
Thy smile is Peace; thy step is Liberty :
Thou scatter'it blessings round with lorith and,
As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.


As now o'er this lone beach I stray ;
Thy * fav'rite Swain oft stole along,
And artless wove his Doric lay,

Far from the busy throng.
Thou heard'ft him, Goddess, strike the tender ftring,
And badft his soul with bolder passions move:
Strait these responsive fhores forgot to ring,
With Beauty's praise, or plaint of flighted Love;
To loftier fights his daring Genius rofe,
And led the war, 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes.

Pointed with Satire's keeneft steel,
The shafts of Wit he darts around :
Ev'n + mitred Dulness learns to feel,

And shrinks beneath the wound.
In aweful poverty his honeft Muse
Walks forth vindi&tive thro’a yenal land :
In vain Corruption fheds her golden dews,
In vain Oppression lifts her iron hand;
He scorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone,
Bids Luft and Folly tremble on the throtte.

Behold, like him, immortal Maid,
The Muses veltal fires I bring :
Here at thy fect the sparks I spread;

Propitiqus wave thy wing, * Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston upon Hull in the rear 1620.

Parker, bishop of Oxford.

And fan them to that dazzling blaze of Song;
That glares tremendous on the Sons of Pride.
But, hark, methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue !
In distant trills it echos o'er the tide ;
Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free,
As swells the Lark's meridian ecstacy,

« Fond Youth ! to MARVELL's patrict fame,

Thy humble breast must ne'er aspire.
« Yet nourish still the lambent flame;

“ Still strike thy blameless Lyre:
“ Led by the moral Muse securely rove ;-
« And all the vernal sweets thy vacant Youth
“ Can call from busy Fancy's fairy grove,
“ O hang their foliage round the fane of Truth:
“ To arts like these devote thy tuneful toil,
" And meet its fair reward in D'ARCY's smile."

4o 'Tis he, my Son, alone shall cheer
“ Thy fick’ning foul; at that sad hour,
" When o'er a much-lov'd Parent's bier

Thy duteous Sorrows shower :
« At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline ;
“ When pining Care leads on her pallid train,
“ And fees thee, like the weak, and widow'd Vine,
“ Winding thy blasted tendrils o'er the plain.
“ At that sad hour shall D'Arcy lend his aid,
“ And raise with friendship's arm thy drooping head.

VIII, 6. This

« This fragrant wreath, the Muses meed,
" That bloom'd those vocal shades among,
“ Where never Flatt'ry dared to tread,

" Or Interest's servile throng ;
“ Receive, my favour'd Son, at my comm

nmand, « And keep, with facred care, for D'Arcy's brow : • Tell him, 'twas wove by my immortal hand, “ I breath'd on every flower a purer glow; Say, for thy fake, I send the gift divine “ To him, who calls thee his, yet makes thee mine."





By the Same.


H! cease this kind persuasive strain,

Which, when it flows from friendship's tonguè,
However weak, however vain,
O'erpowers beyond the Siren's song:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me muse upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these pensive sweets ?
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, supply

A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill

Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill,
Whilft thro' the west, where finks the crimson Day,
Meek Twilight lowly fails, and waves her banners grey ?

Say, from Amiction's various source
Do none but turbid waters flow?
And cannot Fancy clear their course ?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.
Say, 'mid that grove, in love-lorn state,
When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all, that meets the shepherd's ear,
Inspir'd by anguish, and despair ?
Ah no, fair Fancy rules the Song:
She swells her throat; the guides her tongue;
She bids the waving Aspin-spray
Quiver in Cadence to her lay ;
She bids the fringed Ofiers bow,

And rustle round the lake below,
To suit the tenor of her gurgling fighs,
And footh her throbbing breast with folemn sympathies.

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To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares ;
Whose cheeks, beftrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the side of tears;


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