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With awful silence stalk'd before the gate, Tor this, with pity touchid, almighty Jose,
The sire of gods, dispatch'd me from above.
Be still a monarch ; let him swell in vain And his rich chariot still de form'd with gore, With a gay prospect of a fancy'd reigo : He starts with horrour back; ev'n Jove's command Still let himn hope by fraud, or by the sword, Could scarce control bim, nor the vital wand. To bumble Thebes beneath a foreign lord.”
'Twas pow the solemn day, when Jove, array'd Thus the majestic ghost; but ere he fled, In all his thunders, grasp'd the Theban maid: He pluck'd the wreaths and fillets from his head. Then took from blasted Seinele her load,
For now the sickening stars were chas'd away, And in himself conceir'd the future god.
And Heaven's immortal coursers breath'd the day. For this the Thebans revel'd in delight,
Awful to sight confest the grandsire stood, And gave to play and luxury the night;
Bared his wide wound, and all his bosom shor'd, A national debauch ! confus'd they lie
Then dash'd the sleeping monarch with his blood. Stretch'd o'er the fields, their canopy the sky. With a distracted air, and sudden spring, The sprightly trumpets sound, the timbrels play, Starts from his broken sleep the trembling king. And wake with sacred harmony the day.
Shakes off amaz'd th' imaginary gore, The matron's breast the gracious power inspires While fancy paints the scene he saw before : With milder raptures, and with softer fires. Deep in his soul his grandsire's image wrought, So the Bistonian race, a madding train,
And all his brother rose in every thought Exult and revel on the Thracian plain ;
So while the toils are spread, and from behind With milk their bloody banquets they allay, The hunter's shouts come thickening in the wind; Or from the lion rend his panting prey:
The tiger starts from sleep the war to wage, On some abandon'd savage fiercely fly,
Collects his powers, and rouses all his rage: Seize, tear, devour, and think it luxury.
Sternly he grinds his fangs, he weighs his might, But if the rising fumes of wine conspire
And whets his dreadful talons for the fight; To warm their rage, and fan the brutal fire, Then to his young he bears his foe away, Then scenes of horrour are their dear delight, His foe at once the chaser and the prey, They whirl the goblets, and provoke the tight: Thus on his brother he in every thought, Then on the slain the revel is renew'd
Waged future wars, and batiles yet unfought. And all the horrid banquet Aoats in blood.
And now the winged Hermes from on high Shot in deep silence from the dusky skv; Then hover'd o'er the Theban tyrant's head, THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. As stretch'd at ease he prest his gorgeous bed: Where labour'd tapestry from side to side,
WITH joy, blest youth, we saw thee reach thy goal; Glow'd with rich figures, and Assyrian pride.
Fair was thy frame, and beautiful thy soul; Oh! the precarious terms of buman state !
The Graces and the Muses came combin'd, How blind is man! how thoughtless of his fate;
These to adorn the body, those the mind; Sce! through his limbs the dews of slumber creep, Twas there we saw the softest manners meet, Sunk as he lies, in luxury and sleep.
Truth, sweetness, judgment, innocence, and wit. The reverend shade commission'd from above,
So form’d, he flew his race; 'twas quickly won; Hastes to fulfil the high behests of Jove:
'Twas but a step, and finish'd vben begun. Like blind Tiresias to the bed he came,
Nature herself surpris'd would add no more, In form, in babit, and in voice the same,
His life complete in all its parts before ; Pale, as before, the phantom still appear'd,
But his few years with pleasing wonder told, Down his wan bosom flow'd a length of beard ;
By virtues, not by days; and thought him old. His head an imitated fillet wore,
So far beyond his age those virtues ran, His hand a wreath of peaceful olive bore :
That in a boy she found him more than man. With this he touch'd the sleeping monarch's breast, For years let wretches importune the skies, And in his own, the voice of Fate, exprest.
Till, at the long expense of anguish wise, “Then canst thou sleep, to thoughtless rest resign'd? They live, to count their days by miseries. And drive thy brother's image from thy mind?"
Those win the prize, who soonest run the race, Yon gathering storm demands thy timely care,
And life burns brightest in the shortest space. See! how it rolls this way the tide of war.
So to the convex-glass embody'd run, When o'er the seas the sweeping whirlwinds fly,
Drawn to a point, the glories of the Sun; And roar from every quarter of the sky;
At once the gathering beams intensely glow, The pilot, in despair the ship to save,
And through the streighten'd circle fiercely flow: Gives up the helm, a sport to every wave:
In one strong faine conspire the blended rays, Such is thy errour, and thy fate the same
Run to a fire, and crowd into a blaze.
FROM A GREEK ODE OF MR. MASTER'S, FORMERLY O! And swell unrival'd on the Theban throne. New signs and fatal prodigies inspire His mad ambition, with his boasted sire ; And Argos' ample realms in dower bestow'd, No more of earthly subjects sing, And Tydeus reeking from his brother's blood,
To Heaven, my Muse aspire; League and conspire to raise him to the throne, To raise the song, charge every string, And make his tedious banishment thy own.
And strike the living lyre,
Begin; in lofty numbers show
Too long, too long, has she deplor'd
Her absent father and her lord.
To bend her gracious monarch's mind,
She sends her sighs in every wind : For the dim ken of frail mortality.
Can Britain's prayer be thrown aside? What numbers shall I bring along!
And that the first he e'er deny'd ! From whence shall I begin the song?
Yet, mighty prince, vouchsafe to smile, The mighty mystery I'll sing inspir'd
Return and bless our longing isle;
And courts thee from our eyes away.
Though Belgia would our king detain,
We know she begs and pleads in vain ; l'll raise my voice to tell mankind
We know our gracious king prefers The victor's conquest o'er his doom,
Britannia's happiness to bers. How in the grave he lay confin'd,
And lo! to save us from despair, To seal more sure the ravenous tomb.
At length be listens to our prayer.
Dejected Albion's vows he hears,
And hastes to dry her falling tears.
And loudly call their king away, A mingled sound from Calvary I hear,
Once more their longing eyes to bless, And the loud tumult thickens on my ear,
And guard their freedom and their peace. The shouts of murderers that insult the slain, The voice of torment and the shrieks of pain. They know, while Brunswick fills the throne, I cast my eyes with horrour up
The seasons glide with pleasure on ;
The British suns improve their rays,
But see the royal vessel flies,
Lessening to Belgia's weeping eyes :
She prondly sails for Albion's shores,
Guard her, ye gods, with all your powers. Whose guilt conspires to shed his blood. Ilis wide-extended arms I see,
O sea, bid every wave subside,
Man! senseless man! canst thou look on? Thy billows in subjection keep,
And own the monarch of the decp.
Old Thames can scarce his joys sustain,
But runs down headlong to the main, Beneath the burden of thy woe;
His mighty master to descry, Bleed through thy bowels, tear thy hairs,
And leaves his spacious channel dry-
Their eyes pursue the royal barge,
Dost thou not see the thorny circle red?
And drowns the feeble cannon's roar; .
The nations in the sight rejoice, Curls round his limbs, and ploughs into his side ?
And send their souls in every voice. At such a sight let all thy anguish rise,
But now amidst the loud applause, Break up, break up the fountains of thy eyes.
With shame the conscious Muse withdraws; Here bid thy tears in gushing torrents flow,
Nor can her voice be heard amidst the throng, Indulge thy grief, and give a loose to woe.
The theme so lofty, and so low the song.
Weep, till thy sorrows drench the ground.
OV THE MASQUERADES. thee?
Si Natura negat, facit indignatio versum. WEL
ELL—we have reach'd the precipice at last; ON THE KING'S RETURN,
The present age of vice obscures the past.
Our dull forefathers were content to stay, IN THE YEAR 1720.
Nor sinn'd till Nature pointed out the way: RETURN, auspicious prince, again,
No arts they practis'd to forestall delight, Yor let Britannia mourn in vain ;
But stopp'd, to wait the calls of appetite.
Their top-debauches were at best precise,
The fond philosophers for gain
Will leave unturp'd no stone ;
They never find their own.
By the same rock the chymists drown,
And find no friendly hold,
But melt their ready specie down,
In hopes of faucy'd gold.
What is the mad projector's care? New ways and means to pleasure we devise,
In hopes elate and swelling,
Yet wants an house to dwell in,
At court the poor de pendants fail,
And damn their fruitless toil,
When complimented thence to jail,
And ruin'd with a smile. So many various changes to impart,
How to philosophers will sound Would tire an Ovid's or a Proteus' art;
So strange a truth display'd ?
But every where a shade."
TO CELIA PLAYING ON A LUTE.
While Cælia's hands fly swiftly o’er,
And strike this soft machine,
Her touch awakes the springs, and life Statesmen so us'd at court the mask to wear,
Of harmony within. With less, disguise assume the vizor here.
Sweetly they sink into the strings, Officious Heydegger deceives our eyes,
The quivering strings rebound, For his own person is his best disguise :
Each stroke obsequiously obey,
And tremble into sound.
Oh ! had you blest the years of old ;
His lute had Ovid strung,
And dwelt on yours, the charıning theme
Of his immortal song,
The bard had hung on high;
The radiant spheres had ceas'd their tunes,
And danc'd in silence on, Or husbands through mistake gallant a spouse.
Pleas'd the new harmony to hear, Such dire disasters, and a numerous throng
More heavenly than their own. Of like enormities, require the song :
Of old to raise one shade from Hell, But the chaste Muse, with blushes cover'd o'er, To Orpheus was it given : Retires confus'd, and will reveal no more.
But every tune of yours calls down
An angel from his Heaven.
OV A SHADOW.
How are deluded human kind
By empty shows betray'd ?
A nothing or a shade.
The soldier on the wars;
Brats, poverty, and scars.
TO THE UNKNOWN
Like some establish'd king, without control,
Survey each part, examine every side,
The Muse Alcides shall resound; Where she's secure, and where unfortify'd.
The twins of Leda shall succeed ; In faithful lines her history declare,
This for the standing fight renown'd, And trace the causes of her civil war ;
And that for managing the steed, Your pen no partial prejudices sway,
Whose star shines innocently still ; • But truth decides, and virtue wins the day. (pass,
The clouds disperse, the tempests cease, Through what gay fields and flowery scenes we
The waves obedient to their will, Where fancy sports, and fiction leads the chase?
Sink down, and hush their rage to peace. Where life, as through her various acts she tends, Like other comedies, in marriage ends.
Next shall I Numa's pious reign, What Muse but youis so justly could display Or thine, O Romulus, relate : Th' embauled passions marshal'd in array? Or Rome by Brutus freed again, Bid the rang'd appetites in order move,
Or haughty Cato's glorious fate?
Or dwell on noble Paulus' fame?
Too lavish of the patriot's blood ?
Or Regulus' immortal name,
Too obstinately just and good ?
Severely season'd to the fight.
Like trees, Marcellus' glory grows,
With an insensible advance; And poach for morals and the passions there,
The Julian star, like Cynthia, glows, Where Virtue, like a dwarf in giant's arms,
Who leads the planetary dance. Cumber'd with words, and manacled in terms, The Pates, ( sire of human race, Serves to amuse the philosophic fool,
Entrust great Cæsar to thy care, By method dry, and regularly dull.
Give him to hold thy second place, Who sees thy lines so visibly express
And reign thy sole vicegerent here. The soul herself in such a pleasing dress,
And whether India he shall tame, May from thy labours be convinc'd and taught,
Or to his chains the Seres doom ; How Spencer would have sung, and Plato thought.
Or mighty Parthia dreads his name,
And bows her haughty neck to Rome.
And thy loud car shakes Heaven above,
.To nonc ipferior but to Jove.
Wyat man, what hero will you raise,
By the shrill pipe, or deeper lyre? What god, o Clio, will you praise,
And teach the echoes to admire ? Amidst the shades of Helicon,
Cold Hæmus' tops, or Pindus' head, Whence the glad forests hasten d down,
And danc'd as tuneful Orpheus play'd. Taught by the Muse, he stopp'd the fall
Of' rapid floods, and charm'd the wind; The listening oaks obey'd the call,
And left their wondering hills behind. Whom should I first record, but Jove,
Whose sway extends o'er sea and land, The king of men and gods above,
Who holds the seasons in command ? To rival Jove, shall none aspire,
None shall to equal glory rise ; But Pallas claims beneath her sire,
The second honours of the skies. To thee, O Bacchus, great in war,
To Dian will I strike the string, Of Phæbus wounding from afar,
In numbers like his own I'll sing.
THE TWENTY-SECOND ODE OF THE
FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.
Disdains the pangs of fear,
Or poise the glittering spear.
To take the dreadful field:
And innocence his shield.
Obstruct and bar the road,
The roarings of the flood.
Th’ extremes of heats and frosts,
And cool the Libyan coasts..
And rang'd the lonely grove,
And pleasing cares of love ;
A wolf be held me from afar,
A bare downright old-fashiond English feast, Of monstrous bulk and might;
Such as true Britons only can digest; But, naked as I was, he fled
Such as your homely fathers us'd to love, And trembled at the sight.
Who only came to hear and to improve : A beast so huge, nor Daunia's grove,
Humbly content and pleas'd with what was drest, Nor Afric ever view'd,
When Otway, Lee, and Shakespeare rang'd the
Or cheers the drooping trees : Where on the world's remotest verge
O King eternal and divine ! Th'unactive seasons lie,
The world is thine alone : And not one genial ray unbinds
Above the stars thy glories shine, The rigour of the sky :
Above the heavens thy throne. On that un habitable shore,
How far extends thy mighty name! Expose me all alone,
Where'er the Sun can roll, Where I may view without a shade,
That Sun thy wonders shall proclaim,
Thy deeds from pole to pole.
The infant's tongue shall speak thy power,
And vindicate thy laws; Could live for her I love.
The tongue that never spoke before,
Shall labour in thy cause.
And view the heavens around,
With stars and planets crown'd;
Who in their dance attend the Moon,
The empress of the night,
And pour around her silver throne,
Lord! what is mortal man ? that he
Thy kind regard should share? And oftner pall, than raise the appetite.
What is his son, who claims from thee
And challenges thy care ?
To dignify his span.
Him all revere, and all obey Ev'n in our old original, a cart.
His delegated reign, With pride inverted, and fantastic power,
The focks that through the valley stray,
The herds that graze the plain.
The furibus tiger speeds his flight,
Whatever horrid monsters tread
The paths beneath the sea,
Their king at awful distance dread,
And sullenly obey.
O Lord, how far extends thy name!
Thy deeds from pole to pole.
Far as the world can stretch its bounds, ? The Spartan llero, a tragedy, by Mr. Dryden.
The Lord is king of all ;