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 And bid these ruffling gales of grief fubfide: Draws the long luftre of her filver line, While the hufh'd breeze its laft weak whisper blows, II. Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent pray'r, Unfullied Honor decks thine open brow, III. As Thou heard'ft him, Goddefs, ftrike the tender ftring, And led the war, 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes. Pointed with Satire's keenest steel, In aweful poverty his honest Muse In vain Oppreffion lifts her iron hand; He fcorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone, 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, Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free, VI. "Fond Youth! to MARVELL's patrict fame, "Yet nourish still the lambent flame; "Led by the moral Muse fecurely rove; 66 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, 66 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, "Where never Flatt'ry dared to tread, "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 ; Say, for thy fake, I fend the gift divine "To him, who calls thee His, yet makes thee MINE." 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: A charm fo fuited to my mind, As drops this little weeping rill Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill, Whilft thro' the west, where sinks the crimson Day, II. Say, from Affliction's various fource Do none but turbid waters flow? And cannot Fancy clear their course ? Say, 'mid that grove, in love-lorn state, When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate, Ah no, fair Fancy rules the Song: She fwells her throat; fhe guides her tongue; 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. To thee, whofe young and polish'd brow To |