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THE MUSE;
OR, POETICAL ENTHUSIASM.
THE Muse! whate'er the Muse infpires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
The Poet's birth, I ask not where,
His place, his name, they're not my care;
Nor Greece, nor Rome, delighcs me more,
Than Tagu3 bank,* or Thames's shore:t
From lilver Avon's flowery side,
Tho' Shakespeare's numbers sweetly glide, i
As sweet from Morven's defert hills,
My ear the voice of Offian fills.

The Muse! whate'er the Mufe inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Nor bigot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me blame the page;
I scorn not all that Dryden fings,
Because he flatters courts and kings;
And from the master lyre of Gray,
When pomp of music breaks away,
Nor less the found my notice draws,
For that 'tis heard in freedom's caufe.

The Mufe! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Where Wealth's bright sun propitious shines,
No added lustre marks the lines ;

* Alluding to Camoens, the Portuguese Epic Poet; of whose Lusiad we have a masterly translatiov by Mickle,

+ Aluding to Milton, Pope, &c.

Where Want extends het chilling fades, No pleasing flower of Fancy fades; A scribbling peer's applauded lays Might claim, but claim in vain, my praise From that poor Youth, whose tales relate Sad Juga's fears, and Bawdin's fate. I The Mufe ! whate'er the Muse inspires, My soul the tuneful itrain admires : When Fame her wreath well-earn'd bestows, My breast no latent envy knows; My Langhorne's verse I love to hear, And Beattie's fong delights my 'ear; And his whom Athen's Tragic Maid Now leads through Scarning's lonely glade, While he for British nymphs bids flow Her notes of terror and of woe. The Muse! whate'er the Muse infpires, My soul the tuneful ftrain admires: Or be the verse, or blank or rhyme, The theme, or humble or fublime; If Pastoral's hand my journey leads, Thro' harvest fields, or new-mown meads; If Epic's voice fonorous calls To Cta's cliffs,|| or Salem's walls; Enoughthe Muse! the Muse inspires ! My soul the tuneful strain admires. • See Rowley's Poems; supposed to have been written by Chatterton, an unhappy youth born at Bristol. . Mr. Porter, the excellent translator of Eschylus and Euripides. ! Glover's Leonidas. .

Tasso's Jerusalem Dekyered,

COWPER.

VERSES, Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his

solitary Abode in the Island of Juan Feruandez,

I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude ! where are the charms

That fages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place. I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finih my journey alone. Never hear the fweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see, They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of a dove,

How soon wou'd I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth.

Religion ! what treasure untold

Resides in that heav'nly word! More precious than filver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell

These vallies and rocks never heard, Ne'er ligh'd at the found of a knell,

Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your foort,

Convey to this desolate shore,
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends do they now and then send

A with or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind !

Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempeft itself lags behind,

And the swifc-winged arrows of light, When I think of my owa native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair, E'en here is a seafon of rest,

And I to my cabbin repair. There is mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

BOADICEA,

AN ODE. W HEN the British warrior Queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods, Sage, beneath a spreading oak,

Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Ev'ry burning word he spoke,

Full of rage, and full of grief. Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues., Rome shall perith-write that word

In the blood that he has spilt ; Perish hopeless and abhorrid,

Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states, Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates. Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name, Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the foreits of our land,

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