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To thee yon Abbey dank, and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mould'ring stone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.
Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander thro' the cloysters drear,
Could rove each desolated Isle,
Tho' midnight thunders shook the pile ;
And dauntless view, or seem to view,
(As faintly flash the lightnings blue)
Thin fhiv'ring Ghosts from yawning charnels throng,
And glance with filent fweep the shaggy vaults along.
But such terrific charms as these,
I ask not yet: My sober mind
The fainter forms of Sadness please ;
My sorrows are of softer kind.
Thro' this still valley let me stray,
Wrapt in some strain of pensive GRAY:
Whose lofty Genius bears along
The conscious dignity of Song ;
And, scorning from the facred store
To waste a note on Pride, or Power,
Roves, when the glimmering twilight glooms,
And warbles 'mid the rustic tombs :
He too perchance (for well I know,
His heart would melt with friendly woe)
He too perchance, when these poor limbs are laid,
Will heave one tunesul figh, and footh my hov’ring Shade.
ΦΩΝ ΑΝΤΙΑ ΣΥΝΕΤOΙΣΙ
PINDAR, Olymp. II.
WAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along
Deep, majestic, smooth and strong,
Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour :
The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
Oh! Sovereign of the willing foul,
Parent of sweet and folemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares,
And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curb’d the fury of his car,
And drop'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing :
Quench'd in dark clouds of flumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet-green
The rofy-crowned Loves are seen
On Cytherea's day,
With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures ;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting ftrains their Queen's approach declare:
Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state the wins her easy way :
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move
The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love." ;
Man's feeble race what Ills await,
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
ii. And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate !:
The fond complaint, my Song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse ?
Night, and all her fickly dews,
Her Spectres wan, and Birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary fky:
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.
In climes beyond the folar road,
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom
To chear the shiv'ring Native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od'rous fhade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the favage Youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky Loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddefs roves,
Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
Th’ unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Ines, that crown th' Egæan deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering Lab'rinths creep,
How do your tuneful Echo's languish,
Mute, but to the voice of Anguilh !
Where each old poetic Mountain
Inspiration breath'd around;
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound :
Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour
Left their Parnaffus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit loft,
They fought, oh Albion ! next, thy fea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To Him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her aweful face : The dauntless Child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.
This pencil take (she faid) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year :
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horrour that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the facred source of sympathetic Tears.
Nor second He, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy,
The secrets of th' Abyss to spy.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time :