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Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball! 25
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state! 30

Still, when the lust of tyrant pow'r succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

CHORUS of Youths and Virgins*


OH Tyrant Love! hast: thou poffest
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 entring learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.

Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,

Which Nature has imprest? 10

Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?

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

Remarks. Ver. 9. Why Virtue, etc.] In allusion to that famous conceit of Guarini,

"Se il peccare e si dolce, etc.

Vol. I. I

ODE on Solitude1.

HAP P P Y 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 sire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years Aide soft away, 10 In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

Together mixt; sweet recreation: And innocence, which most does please 15

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 at -bout twelve years old. P.

The dying Christian to his S o u L.



T 7" IT AL spark of heav'nly flame:
▼ Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, c

And let me languish into life.


Hark! they whisper; Angels say,

Sister Spirit, come away.

What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my fenses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death,?

Remarks. 'This ode was written in imitation of the famous sonnet of Hadrian to his departing foul ;• but as much superior to his original in fense and sublimity, as the Christian Religion is to the Pagan.


The wbrld recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting?

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