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• Know-to confute your envious pride
(His lordship from the canvass cried),
Know—that it is my real face,
Where

you

could no resemblance trace:
I've tried you by a lucky trick,
And proved your genius to the quick.
Void of all judgment, justice, sense,
Out-ye pretending varlets-hence.'

The connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despised-detected—and disgraced.

THE WITCH.

A Witch, that from her ebon chair
Could hurl destruction through the air,
Or, at her all commanding will,
Make the tumultuous ocean still :
Once, by an incantation fell
(As the recording druids tell),
Pluck'd the round Moon, whose radiant light
Silver'd the sober noon of night,
From the domain she held above,
Down to a dark infernal grove.
• Give me (the goddess cried), a cause
disturb

my

sacred laws ? Look at my train, yon wandering host, See how the trembling stars are lost! Through the celestial regions wide, Why do they range without a guide ?

Why you

Chaos, from our confusion, may
Hope for his old detested sway.

I'm (says the Witch) severely cross'd,
Know that my favourite squirrel's lost:
Search for I 'll have creation torn,
If he's not found before the morn.'

Soon as the impious charge was givenFrom the tremendous stores of heaven, Jove with a bolt-revengeful! red! Struck the detested monster dead.

If there are slaves to pity blind,
With power enough to plague mankind,
That for their own nefarious ends,
Tread
upon

Freedom and her friends,
Let them beware the Witch's fate!
When their presumption's at the height,
Jove will his angry powers assume,
And the cursed miscreants meet their doom.

ODES.

AN

IRREGULAR ODE ON MUSIC.
CEASE, gentle sounds, nor kill me quite
With such excess of sweet delight!
Each trembling note invades my heart,
And thrills through every vital part;

A soft, a pleasing pain
Pursues

my heated blood through every vein;
What, what does the enchantment mean?
Ah! give the charming magic o'er,
My beating heart can bear no more.

Now wild with fierce desire,

My breast is all on fire!
In soften'd raptures now I die!
Can empty sound such joys impart!
Can music thus transport the heart

With melting ecstasy!
O art divine! exalted blessing!
Each celestial charm expressing!
Kindest gift the gods bestow!
Sweetest good that mortals know!
When seated in a verdant shade
(Like tuneful Thyrsis) Orpheus play'd;

The distant trees forsake the wood,
The listening beasts neglect their food,

To hear the heavenly sound;

The dryads leave the mountains,

The naiads quit the fountains,
And in a sprightly chorus dance around.
To raise the stately walls of ancient Troy,
Sweet Phæbus did his tuneful harp employ:

See what soft harmony can do!
The moving rocks the sound pursue,

Till in a large collected mass they grew:
Had Thyrsis lived in these remoter days,
His were the chaplet of immortal bays!

Apollo's harp unknown,
The shepherd had remain’d of song

The deity alone.

BIRTHDAY ODE.

PERFORMED AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN.

HARK-how the soul of Music reigns,

As when the first great birth of Nature sprung, When Chaos burst his massy chains,

'Twas thus the cherubs sung-
• Hail-hail, from this auspicious morn

Shall British glories rise!
Now are the mighty treasures born,
That shall Britannia's fame adorn,

And lift her to the skies.
Let George's mighty banners spread,

His lofty clarions roar;
Till warlike echo fills with dread

The hostile Gallic shore.

• Mark-how his name with terror fills!
The magic sound Rebellion kills,
And brightens all the northern hills,

Where pallid treasons dwell;
The monster shall no more arise,
Upon the ground she panting lies!
Beneath his William's foot she dies,

And now she sinks to hell.

· Haste-let Ierne's harp be newly strung, And after mighty George be William sung.

• Talk no more of Grecian glory, William stands the first in story: He, with British ardour glows:

See-the pride of Gallia fading!

See-the youthful warrior leading Britons vengeful to their foes ! • Fair is the olive branch Hibernia boasts, Nor shall the din of war disturb her coasts; While Stanhope smiles, her sons are bless'd, In native loyalty confess'd! See- see, thrice happy isle !

See what gracious George bestow'd ; Twice' have you seen a Stanhope smile,

These are gifts become a god! • How the grateful island glows!

Stanhope's name shall be revered; Whilst by subjects and by foes

Sacred George is loved and fear'd.

1 Earls of Chesterfield and Harrington, both successively Lords Lieutenants of Ireland.

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