There, ev'ry Grace and Mufe fhall throng,
Exalt the dance, or animate the song;
There Youths and Nymphs, in confort gay,
Shall hail the rifing, clofe the parting day.
With me, alas! those joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The ftill-believing, ftill renew'd defire; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind Deceivers of the foul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th' involuntary Tear? Why words fo flowing, thoughts fo free,

Stop, er turn nonfenfe, at one glance of thee? Thee, dreft in Fancy's airy beam,

Abfent I follow thro' th' extended Dream; Now, now I feize, I clafp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my arms;

Illic bis pueri die

Numen cum teneris virginibus tuum Laudantes, pede candido

In morem Salium ter quatient humum.

'Mec nec femina, nec puer

Jam, nec fpes animi credula mutui,

Nec certare juvat mero,

Nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

Sed cur, heu! Ligurine, cur

Manat rara meas lacryma per genas?

Cur facunda parum decoro

Inter verba cadit lingua filentio ?

And swiftly fhoot along the Mall,
Or foftly glide by the Canal,

Now shown by Cynthia's filver ray,

And now, on rolling waters snatch'd away.

Nocturnis ego fomniis

Jam captum teneo, jam volucrem fequor Te per gramina Martii

Campi te, per aquas, dure, volubiles.

Part of the NINTH ODE

Of the FOURTH BOOK.

L

EST you should think that verfe shall die,
Which founds the Silver Thames along,

Taught on the wings of Truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar fong;

Tho' daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spenfer native Muses play;
Nor yet fhall Waller yield to time,
Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay-

Ne forte credas interitura, quae
Longe fonantem natus ad Aufidum
Non ante vulgatas per artes
Verba loquor focianda chordis;

Non, fi priores Maeonius tenet
Sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent
Ceaeque, et Alcaei minaces
Stefichorique graves Camenae:

Sages and Chiefs long fince had birth

Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd; These rais'd new Empires o'er the Earth,

And Thofe, new Heav'ns and Systems fram'd.

Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's pride!
They had no Poet, and they died.
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no Poet, and are dead.

Nec, fi quid olim lufit Anacreon,
Delevit aetas: fpirat adhuc amor,
Vivuntque commiffi calores
Aeoliae fidibus puellae.

Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; fed omnes illacrymabiles
Urguentur ignotique longa
Nocte, carent quia vate facro.