An ODE to a YOUNG GENTLEMAN of MERITS but a VOTARY of PLEASURE.

By the Rev. Mr. WILLIAM JESSOP, of Lifmore, in Ireland.

TREPHON, indulge thy gen'rous flight,
genou,

STRE

The primrofe-paths of blithe delight,
And give dull fcruples to the wind:
Through ev'ry night and ev'ry day,
Let feftive pleasure guide thy way,

And o'er thy ev'ry thought maintain unrival'd fway.

Where Comus holds his jovial court
With fparkling nectar fill the bowl,
While the free fons of gladnefs fport,

And wit darts funbeams on the foul:
While loud the chearing carol rings,
Or harp refounds with fprightly ftrings,

"Till mirth in triumph foar with full expanded wings.

Hie thee anon to Celia's bow'r,

Clafp the dear charmer to thy breast,
And, rapt by love's exatic pow'r.
Confefs thy foul fupremely bleft;

Should Celia's luscious beauties cloy,
Let fresher charms thy heart employ,

And plunge a-new in gulphs of highly-fealon'd joy.

Thus folly chants her firen lay:

Yet, Strephon, paufe to fix thy choice,

'Till with attention thou fhalt weigh

The fober ftrains of Wisdom's voice.

She not a flatt'rer, but a friend,

Will point the perils, that attend,

And prove thefe brief delights in lafting wces muft end.

Deluded rover, think in time,

Ere Pleasure's bane thy vitals feize,

To jocund youth, fweet hour of prime,
Succeeds a train of vulgar days.

Ere long thy lifeblood's fervid tide
In languid rounds will feebly glide,
And with it all thy glee and revelry fubfide.

Ah! truft not Youth; for Reason's eye,

Beneath his mafque of luring fmiles,

Can well difcern the traitor fly,

And in his fondness mark his wiles.

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He

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He foothes thee only to betray:

Clafp'd by the hand, in winning way,

He leads thee ftep by step to weakness and decay.

The river thus, that murmurs by,

Feeds a fair tree's luxuriant pride, And bids its branches tow'r on high,

And spread their verdure o'er the tide; While all the time th' infidious foe Unnotic'd aims the certain blow,

And gradual faps its root, and lays its beauties low...

The hours, that now fo gaily dance
With feather'd feet, will foon be pasts
Soon will the heavy days advance,

With doubts and bodings overcast:

A low'ring gloom thy foul fhall shroud,
While Confcience, feated in the cloud,

Shall lance her livid flash, and roll her thunders loud.

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The fears of fomething past the grave,

And keenest anguish prove thy joys are dearly bought.

Which youth's quick pulfes now controul,

Anon fhall ev'ry fence outbrave,

And burft, like torrents, on the foul.

Alas! 'tis then th' excluded thought

Shall rush with tenfold terror fraught,

Thus if a hoft has long affail'd

The walls of fome devoted town,

When at the last its works have fail'd,

And all its tow'rs are batter'd down,

The more delay the fiegers found

The harder toil to win the ground,

More fierce they mount the breach, and pour wild havock round.

What scenes thy thoughtless youth prepares

For the dull days of drooping age,

When totter'ing limbs, and hoary hairs,
The king of terrors near prefage.

This world no folace fhall fupply;

The next shall fcowl with threat'ning eye;

And wearied out with life thy foul fhall dread to die.

So from a cliff's aerial brow

If flips perchance fome heedlefs fwain,

And midway meets a thorny bough,
He gripes it with an eager ftrain ;

Hopeless and horrid is his state;

His anguish, while he clings, is great;

And should he part his grafp, perdition is his fate.

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An ODE,

Written by WALTER MAPES Archdeacon of OXFORD, the ANACREON of the Eleventh Century.

THE SAME, attempted in English.

By Mr. DERBY, of FOR DINGBRIDGE, HANTS.

I.

'M refolv'd in a Tavern with Honour to die :

I'M

At my Mouth place a full flowing Bowl,
That Angels, while round me they hover, may cry,
Place, O God, Peace to this jolly foul!"

II.

By toping the Mind with fresh Vigour is fraught,
The Heart too fears up to the Skies;

Give me Wine that's unmix'd-not that watery Draught,
While the Prefident's Butler fupplies.

III.

To each Man his Gift Nature gives to enjoy ;

To pretend to write well is a Jeft

When I'm hungry; I yield, overcome by a Boy;
And a Fait like the Grave I deteft.

IV.

My Verfes all taste of the Wine that I ftow;
While I'm empty my Mufe is unkind;

But with Bumpers enliven'd how fweet does the flow!
Fam'd Ovid I leave far behind.

V.

Till my Belly's well fill'd Truths I ne'er can divine;
But when Bacchus prefides in my Pate,

The ftrong Impulfe I feel of the great God of Rhime,
And wonderful Things I relate.

ODE for the NEW YEAR.

January 1, 1774.

By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Efq; Poet Laureat.

"P

ASS but a few thort fleeting years, Imperial Xerxes figh'd, and faid, Whilft his fond eyes, fuffus'd with tears, His numerous hofts furvey'd ;

"Pafs but a few short fleeting years,

And all that pomp which now appears

A glorious, living scene,

Shall breathe its laft: Shall fall, fhall die,

And low in earth yon myriads lie,

As they had never been!"

True, tyrant: Wherefore then does pride,

And vain ambition urge thy mind,

To fpread thy needlefs conquefts wide

And defolate mankind?

Say, why do millions bleed at thy command?
If life, alas, is fhort, why fhake the hafty fand?

Not

Not fo do Britain's Kings behold

Their floating bulwarks of the main
Their undulating fails unfold,
And gather all the wind's aerial reign.
Myriads they fee, prepar'd to brave
The loudeft ftorm, the wildest wave,
To hurl juft thunders on infulting foes;
To guard, and not invade, the world's repofe.
Myriads they fee, their country's dear delight,
Their country's dear defence, and glory in the fight!
Nor do they idly drop a tear

On fated Nature's future bier;

For not the grave can damp Britannia's fires;

Tho' changed the men, the worth is still the fame ;
The tons will emulate the fires,

And the fons' fons will catch the glorious flame!

The BUCHANSHIRE TRAGEDY; or, Sir JAMES the Ross. An Hiftorical SCOTS BALLAD.

His growth was as the tufted firr,

That crowns the mountain's brow;
And waving o'er his fhoulders broad,
His locks of yellow flew.

The chieftain of that brave clan, Rofs,
A firm undaunted band;

Five hundred warriors drew the fword,
Beneath his high command:

In bloody fight thrice had he stood,
Against the English keen,
Ere two-and-twenty opening fprings
This blooming youth had feen.

The fair Matilda, dear he lov'd,

A maid of beauty rare ;

Even Margaret on the Scottish throne,
Was never half so fair.

Lang had he woo'd, lang fhe refus'd,
With feeming fcorn and pride,
Yet aft her eyes confefs'd the love
Her fearful words deny'd.

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