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To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
And Athens rising near the pole;
Ye gods! what justice rules the ball !
In every age, in every state!
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
O tyrant Love! hast thou possess'd
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim;
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
Which Nature has impress'd;
The mild and generous breast?
Love's purer flames the gods approve;
Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
What is loose love? a transient gust,
fed from wild desire ;
But Hymen's kinder flames unite,
And burn for ever one;
Productive as the sun.
0, source of every social tie,
What various joys on one attend,
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
Or views his smiling progeny ;-
What home-felt raptures move!
With reverence, hope, and love.
Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises;
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
ODE ON SOLITUDE.*
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 ;
6 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
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Tell where I lie.
* This was a very early production of our author, written when he was not quite twelve years old.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
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,
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.