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To what new clime, what distant sky,

Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?


When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
When wild barbarians spurn her dust;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore
Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore,
See arts her savage sons control,

And Athens rising near the pole ;
Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from the land.



Ye gods! what justice rules the ball !
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
O cursed effects of civil hate,

In every age, in every state !
Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.





O tyrant Love! hast thou possess’d

The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast ?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim;
And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.

Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But entering learns to be sincere :
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,

Which Nature has impress’d;
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire

The mild and generous breast?



Love's purer flames the gods approve;
The gods and Brutus bend to love :

Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.

What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust;
A vapor fed from wild desire;
A wandering, self-consuming fire.

20 But Hymen's kinder flames unite,

And burn for ever one;
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,

Productive as the sun.




0, source of every social tie,
United wish, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend !

Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise ;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;

Or views his smiling progeny ;-
What tender passions take their turns,

What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,

With reverence, hope, and love.



Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises ;
Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises ;

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!
Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;

Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

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Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground:

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.


Bless'd, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

Together mix’d; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.


Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die ;
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.


* This was a very early production of our author, written . when he was not quite twelve years old.


Pope, in a letter to Steele, at whose suggestion he had adopted the subject, gives this brief history of his composition : You have it,' he says, “as Cowley calls it, warm from the brain : it came to me the first moment I waked this morning : yet you 'll see, it was not so absolutely inspiration, but that I had in my head, not only the verses of Hadrian, but the fine fragment of Sappho.' Pope omitted to observe the close similarity of his lines to those of Flatman, an obscure writer of the century before:-

When on my sick bed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say,

Be not fearful, come away. Between this rough versification and the polished elegance of Pope there can be no comparison; but the thoughts are the same. Prior translated Hadrian's ode with more fidelity, but less good fortune.

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