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Oft from the balmy blessings of repose,

And the cool fillness of the night's deep shade,
To light and health th' exulting Votarift rose,

Whilft fancy work'd with med'cine's powerful aid.

Oft in his dreams (no longer clogg'd with fears

Of some broad torrent, or some headlong steep,
With each dire form Imagination wears

When harrass'd Nature finks in turbid sleep)

Oft in his dreams he saw diffufive day

Through bursting glooms its cheerful beams extend;
On billowy clouds saw sportive Genii play,

And bright Hygeia from her heaven descend.


What marvel then, that man's o’erflowing mind

Should wreath-bound columns raise, and altars fair,
And grateful offerings pay, to Powers so kind,

Tho' fancy-form'd, and creatures of the Air.

Who that has writh'd beneath the scourge of pain,

Or felt the burthen'd languor of disease,
But would with joy the slightest respite gain,

And idolize the hand which lent him ease ?

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To Thee, my friend, unwillingly to thee

For truths like these the anxious Muse appeals.
Can Memory answer from affliction free,
Or speaks the sufferer what, I fear, he feels ?

D 4


No, let me hope ere this in Romely grove

Hygeia revels with the blooming Spring, Ere this the vocal seats the Muses love

With hymns of praise, like Pæon's temple, ring:

It was not written in the book of Fate

That, wand'ring far from Albion's sea-girt plain, Thy distant Friend should mourn thy shorter date,

And tell to alien woods and streams his pain,

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It was not written. Many a year fhall roll,

If aught th' inspiring Muse aright presage, Of blameless intercourse from Soul to Soul,

And friendship well matur'd from Youth to Age.

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EHOLD, my friend, to this small orb confin'd

The genuine features of Aurelius' face; The father, friend, and lover of his kind,

Shrunk to a narrow coin's contracted space.

The medal of Marcus Aurelius,


Not so his fame ; for erft did heaven ordain

Whilst seas should waft us, and whilst suns should warm, On tongues of men, the friend of man Mould reign,

And in the arts he loy'd the patron charm.

Oft as amidst the mould'ring spoils of Age,

His moss-grown monuments my steps pursue ; Oft as my eye revolves the historic page,

Where pafs his generous acts in fair review, Imagination grasps at many things,

Which men, which angels might with rapture see; Then turns to humbler fcenes its safer wings,

And, blush nog whilst I speak it, thinks on thee.

With all that firm benevolence of mind,

Which pities, whilft it blames, th' unfeeling vain, With all that active zeal to ferve mankind,

That tender suffering for another's pain,

Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd ?

Did heedless Fortune flumber at thy birth, Or on thy virtues with indulgence gaz’d, And

gave her grandeurs to her sons of earth? Happy for thee, whose less distinguished sphere

Now cheers in private the delighted eye,
For calm Content, and smiling Ease are there,

And, Heav'n's divinelt gift, sweet Liberty.


Happy for me, on life's serener flood

Who fail, by talents as by choice reftrain's,
Elfe had I only shar'd the general good,

And lost the friend the Universe had gain’d.

The LYRIC MUSE to Mr. M A S O N.

On the Recovery of the Right Honourable the Earl

of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illness.

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Where every menial face affords
Raptur'd thoughts that want but words?
And the Patron's dearer part,
The gentle sharer of his heart,
Wears her wonted charms again.
Time, that felt Affliction's chain,
Learns on lighter wings to move;
And the tender pledge of love,
Sweet Amelia, now is prest
With double transport to her breast.
Sweet Amelia, thoughtless why,
Imitates the general joy ;
Innocent of care or guile
See the lovely Mimic smile,
And, as the heart-felt raptures rise,
Catch them from her Mother's eyes,

Does the noisy town deny
Soothing airs, and extacy?
Sion's shades afford retreat,
Thither bend thy pilgrim feet,
There bid th' imaginary train,
Coinage of the Poet's brain,
Not only in effects appear,
But forms, and limbs, and features wear.
Let feftive Mirth, with flow'rets crown'd,
Lightly tread the meafur'd round;

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