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A man of merit, or a miser?
Our friend Dan Prior, told (you know)
The veriest hermit in the nation
Behold the place, where if a poet
Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Que ca est bon! Ah goutez ca!
I'm quite ashamed 'tis mighty rude
O for the heart of Homer's mice,
BOOK IV. ODE I.
AGAIN? new tumults in
breast? Ah spare me, Venus ! let me, let me rest! I am not now, alas! the man
As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne. Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,
Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms ! Mother too fierce of dear desires !
Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires: To number five direct your doves,
There spread round Murray all your blooming loves, Noble and young, who strikes the heart
With every sprightly, every decent part Equal the injured to defend,
To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend, He with a hundred arts refined
Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind : To bim each rival shall submit,
Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then ball thy form the marble grace,
(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face:
His house, embosom'd in the grove,
Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendant green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary scene: Thither the silver sounding lyres
Shall call the siniling Loves and young Desires ; There, every grace and muse shall throng,
Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There youths and nymphs, in concert gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting day. With me, alas ! those joys are q'er ;
For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,
The still believing, still renew'd desire: Adieu ! the heart expanding bowl,
And all the kind deceivers of the soul ! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my cheek the involuntary tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,
Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? Thee dress'd in fancy's airy beam, 3
Absent I follow through the extended dream; Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,
And, now you burst (ah cruel) from my arms !
Or softly glide by the canal;
And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.
PART OF THE NINTH ODE
OF THE FOURTH BOOK.
LEST you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver 'Thames along, Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song ; Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral laySages and chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæsar was, or Newton named: These raised new empires o'er the earth,
And those new heavens and systems framed. Vain was the chief's the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died; In vain they schemed, in vain they bled! They had no poet, and are dead.