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ODE.

H

To INDEPENDENCY.

By Mr. MASON.

I.

ERE, on my native fhore reclin'd,

While Silence rules this midnight hour,

I woo thee, GODDESS. On my musing mind
Defcend, propitious Power!

And bid these ruffling gales of grief fubfide:
Bid my calm'd foul with all thy influence shine;
As yon chafte Orb along this ample tide

Draws the long luftre of her filver line,

While the hufh'd breeze its laft weak whisper blows,
And lulls old HUMBER to his deep repofe.

II.

Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent pray'r,
In all thy graceful plainness drest ;
No knot confines thy waving hair,
No zone thy floating veft.

Unfullied Honor decks thine open brow,
And Candor brightens in thy modeft eye:
Thy blush is warm Content's ætherial glow,
Thy fmile is Peace; thy ftep is Liberty :
Thou scatter'st bleffings round with lah band,
As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.

III. As

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Thou heard'ft him, Goddefs, ftrike the tender ftring,
And badft his foul with bolder paffions move:
Strait these refponfive fhores forgot to ring,
With Beauty's praise, or plaint of flighted Love;
To loftier flights his daring Genius rofe,

And led the war, 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes.
IV.

Pointed with Satire's keenest steel,
The fhafts of Wit he darts around :
Ev'n + mitred Dulness learns to feel,
And fhrinks beneath the wound.

In aweful poverty his honest Muse
Walks forth vindictive thro' a venal land :
In vain Corruption fheds her golden dews,

In vain Oppreffion lifts her iron hand;

He fcorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone,
Bids Luft and Folly tremble on the throne.

V.

Behold, like him, immortal Maid,

The Mufes veftal fires I bring:

Here at thy fect the fparks I spread;

Propitious wave thy wing,

* Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston upon Hull in the Year

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 diftant trills it echos o'er the tide ;

Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free,
As fwells the Lark's meridian ecftacy.

VI.

"Fond Youth! to MARVELL's patrict fame,
Thy humble breast must ne'er aspire.

"Yet nourish still the lambent flame;
"Still ftrike thy blameless Lyre:

"Led by the moral Muse fecurely rove;
"And all the vernal sweets thy vacant Youth
“Can cull 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 fmile."

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VII.

"Tis he, my Son, alone fhall cheer

Thy fick'ning foul; at that fad hour,

"When o'er a much-lov'd Parent's bier

Thy duteous Sorrows shower:

"At that fad hour, when all thy hopes decline; "When pining Care leads on her pallid train,

"And fees thee, like the weak, ́ and widow'd Vine,

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Winding thy blafted tendrils o'er the plain.

"At that fad hour fhall D'ARCY lend his aid,

"And raise with friendship's arm thy drooping head.

VIII. "This

VIII.

"This fragrant wreath, the Mufes meed,
"That bloom'd those vocal shades among,

"Where never Flatt'ry dared to tread,
"Or Intereft's servile throng;

"Receive, my favour'd Son, at my command,

"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 ;

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Say, for thy fake, I fend the gift divine

"To him, who calls thee His, yet makes thee MINE."

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A

By the Same.

I.

H! ceafe this kind persuasive strain,

Which, when it flows from friendship's tongue,

However weak, however vain,

O'erpowers beyond the Siren's fong:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me mufe upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these penfive sweets?
Can Mufic's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, fupply

A charm fo fuited 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 sinks the crimson Day,
Meek Twilight flowly fails, and waves her banners grey?

II.

Say, from Affliction's various fource

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,
Infpir'd by anguish, and despair?

Ah no, fair Fancy rules the Song:

She fwells her throat; fhe guides her tongue;
She bids the waving Aspin-spray

Quiver in Cadence to her lay;

She bids the fringed Ofiers bow,

And ruftle round the lake below,

To fuit the tenor of her gurgling fighs,

And footh her throbbing breast with folemn fympathies.
III.

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

To

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