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And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent stain'd with Danish blood.

High in the midst, upon his urn reclined,
(His sea-green mantle waving with the wind,)
The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eges
Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise,
Then bow'd, and spoke ; the winds forget to roar,
And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore :

* Hail, sacred peace! hail, long expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise; Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold, Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; These now no more shall be the muscs' themes, Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train, Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. No more my sons shall dye with British blood Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood : Safe on my shore each unmolested swain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain: The shady empire shall retain no trace Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chace : The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown, And arms employ’d on birds and beasts alone. Behold! the ascending villas on my side, Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide. Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase, And temples rise, the beauteous works of peace.

I see, where two fair cities bend Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend ! There mighty nations shall inquire their doom, The world's great oracle in times to come; There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be soen Once more to bend before a British queen.

I see,

**Thy trees, fair Windsor!. now shall leave their

woods,
And half thy forests rush into the floods ;
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display, .
To the bright regions of the rising day;
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole ;
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales !
For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly shell its lucid globe unfold,
And Phæbus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come, when free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange tire!
Oh, stretch thy reign, fair peace! from shore to

shore,
Till conqucst cease, and slavery be no more ;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold.
Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds shall barbarous discord dwell:
Gigantic pride, pale terror, gloomy care,
And mad ambition shall attend her there :
There purple vengeance bathed in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires;
There hateful envy her own snakes shall feel,
And persecution mourn her broken wheel;

There faction roar, rebellion bite her chain,
And asping furies thirst for blood in vain.'

Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days ;
The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the scenes of opening fate to light ;
My humble muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,
Where peace descending, bids her olive spring,
And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.
E'en I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise.
Enough for me, that to the listening swains
First in these fields I sang the sylvan strains.

ODE
ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY,

MDCCVIII.

And other Pieces for Music. DESCEND, ye Nine: descend and sing:

The breathing instruments inspire ;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre !

In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain

Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound :
While, in more lengthen'd notes and slow
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet

louder rige,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes
In broken air trembling, the wild music floats,

Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away,
In a dying, dying fall.
By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies ;

Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,

Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds ;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds ;

Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Listening envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions bear away

their

rage.
But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,

While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,

Inflamed with glory's charms :
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheathed the shining blade :
And

seas, and rocks, and skies rebound

To arms, to arms, to arms !
But when through all the infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,

Love, strong as death, the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,

What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'd,

O'er all the dreary coasts!

Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,
And cries of tortured ghosts :
But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre :
And see ! the tortured ghosts respire.

See, shady forms advance!
\Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance !
The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.

By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er the Elysian flowers ;
By those happy souls, who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,

Or amaranthine bowers !
By the hero's armed shades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades
By the youths that died for love,

Wandering in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life :
Oh take the husband, or return the wife !

He sung, and hell consented

To hear the poet's prayer,
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.

Thus song could prevail.

O'er death and o'er hell;
A conquest how hard and how glorious !

Though fate had fast bound her

With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious.

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