There while the feeds of future bloffoms dwell, 'Tis colour'd for the fight, perfum'd to please the fmell.

Why knows the nightingale to fing?

Why flows the pine's nectareous juice?
Why fhines with paint the linnet's wing?
For fuftenance alone? for ufe?
For pielervation? Ev'ry fphere
Shall bid fair pleafure's rightful claim appear.
And fure there fecm, of human kind,

Some born to fhun the folemn ftrife;
Some for amufive talks 'defign'd,

To foothe the certain ills of life;

Grace its lone vales with many a budding rofe,
New founts of blifs difclofe,

Call forth refreshing fhades, and decorate repose.
From plains and woodlands; from the view
Of rural nature's blooming face,
Smit by the glare of rank and place,
To counts the fons of fancy flew;
There long had art ordain'd a rival feat;
There had the lavith'd all her care
To form a fcene more dazzling fair,
And call'd them from their green retreat
To fhare her proud control;
Had given the robe with grace to flow,
Had taught exotic gems to glow;

And, emulous of nature's pow'r,
Mimick'd the plume, the leaf, the flow'r;
Chang'd the complexion's native hue,
Moulded cach ruftic limb anew,

And warp'd the very foul.
Awhile her magic ftrikes the novel eye,
Awhile the fairy forms delight;
And now aloof we feem to fly
On purple pinions through a purer sky,
Where all is wondrous, all is bright:
Now landed on fome fpangled thore

Awhile each dazzled maniac roves
By fapphire lakes, through emerald groves.
Paternal acres please no more;
Adieu, the fimple, the fincere delight.
Th'habitual scene of hill and dale,
The rural herds, the vernal gale,
The tangled vetch's purple bloom,
The fragrance of the bean's perfume,
Be theirs alone who cultivate the foil,

And drink the cup of thirft, and cat the bread of toil.

But foon the pageant fades away!
"Tis nature only bears perpetual sway.
We pierce the counterfeit delight,
Fatigued with fplendor's irkfome beams.
Fancy again demands the fight

Of native groves and wonted streams, [eyes, Pants for the fcenes that charm'd her youthful Where truth maintains her court, and banishes difguife.

Then hither oft, ye fenators, retire,

With nature here high converfe hold; For who like Stamford her delights admire, Like Stamford fhall with fcorn behold Th'unequal bribes of pageantry and gold;

But how muft faithless art prevail,
Should all who taste our joy fincere,
To virtue, truth, or fcience dear,'
Forego a court's alluring pale,

For dimpled brook and leafy grove,

For that rich luxury of thought they love!
Ah, no! from thefe the public fphere requires
Example for its giddy bands:

From thefe impartial heaven demands
To fpread the flaine itself infpires;

To fift opinion's mingled mafs,

Imprefs a nation's tafte, and bid the sterling pass.
Happy, thrice happy they,

Whofe graceful deeds have exemplary shone
Round the gay precincts of a throne,

With mild effective beams!
Who bands of fair ideas bring,
By folemn grot, or fhady spring,
To join their pleafing dreams!
Theirs is the rural blifs without alloy,
They only that deferve, enjoy.
What tho' nor fabled Dryad haunt their grove,
Nor Naiad near their fountain rove,
Yet all embodied to the mental fight,

A train of fmiling virtues bright Shall there the wife retreat allow, Shall twine triumphant palms to deck the wanderer's brow.

And though, by faithlefs friends alarm'd, Art have with nature wag'd prefumptuous war; By Seymour's winning influence charm'd, In whom their gifts united shine,

No longer fhall their counsels jar,
'Tis hers to meditate the peace :

Near Percy-lodge, with awe-ftruck mien,
The rebel feeks her lawful queen,
And havoc and contention ceafe.
I fee the rival pow'rs combine,
And aid each other's fair defign;

54

Nature

Nature exalt the mound where art fhall build;| Art fhape the gay alcove, while nature paints the field.

Begin, ye fongfters of the grove!

O warble forth your nobleft lay;
Where Somerfet vouchfafes to rove,

Ye leverets, freely fport and play.
-Peace to the ftrepent horn!
Let no harfh diffonance difturb the morn,
No founds inelegant and rude
Her facred folitudes profane!
Unlefs her candour not exclude

The lowly thepherd's votive strain,
Who tunes his reed amidst his rural cheer,
Fearful, yet not averfe, that Somerset should hear.

IN gayer hours, when high my fancy ran,
The Mufe, exulting, thus her lay began:
Bleft be the Baftard's birth! through wondrous
ways

He fhines eccentric like a comet's blaze!

He lives to build, not boaft, a generous race :
No tenth tranfmitter of a foolih face.
His daring hope no fire's example bounds;
His firft-born lights no prejudice confounds.
He, kindling from within, requires no flame;
He glories in a Baftard's glowing name.

Bon to himfelf, by no poffeffion led,
In freedom fofter'd, and by fortune fed;
Nor guides, nor rules, his fovereign choice control,
His body independent as his foul;
Loos'd to the world's wide range-enjoin'd noaim,
Preferib'd no duty, and affign'd no name:
Nature's unbounded fon, he ftands alone,
His heart unbiafs'd, and his mind his own.

O Mother, yet no Mother! 'tis to you

My thanks for fuch diftinguifh'd claims are due. You, unenflav'd to Nature's narrow laws, Warm championefs for freedom's facred cause, From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, From ties maternal, moral, and divine, Difcharg'd my grafping foul; pufh'd me from fhore, And launch'd me into life without an oar.

What had I left, if, conjugally kind, By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd, Untaught the matrimonial bounds to flight, And coldly confcious of a husband's right, You had faint drawn me with a form alone, A lawful lump of life, by force your own! Then, while your backward will retrench'd defire, And unconcurring fpirits lent no fire, I had been born your duil, domeftic heir, Load of your life, and motive of your care; Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, The flave of pomp, a cypher in the state; Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, And lumb'ring in a feat by chance my own. Far nobler bleflings wait the Baftard's lot; Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot! Strong as neceflity, he starts away, Climbs againft wrongs, and brightens into day.

Thus unprophetic, lately mifinfpir'd, I fung: gay flutt'ring hope my fancy fir'd; Inly fecure, through confcious fcorn of ill, Nor taught by wifdom how to balance will, Rathly deceiv'd, I faw no pits to fhun, But thought to purpose and to act were one; Heedlefs what pointed cares pervert his way, Whom caution arms not, and whom woes better, But now expos'd, and fhrinking from diftres, I fly to fhelter, while the tempefts prefs; My Mufe to grief refigns the varying tone, The raptures languifh, and the numbers go

O Memory! thou foul of joy and pain! Thou actor of our paffions o'er again! Why doft thou aggravate the wretch's woe? Why add continuous fmart to ev'ry biow? Few are my joys; alas, how foon forgot! On that kind quarter thou invad'ft me not: While fharp and numberlets my forrows faj Yet thou repeat'ft and multiplieft them all!

Is chance a guilt? that my difaftrous heart, For mifchief never meant, must ever smart? Can felf-defence be fin?-Ah, plead no more! What tho' no purpos'd malice ftain'd thee o'er, Had heaven befriended thy unhappy fide, Thou hadft not been provck'd or thou ha died.

Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from 12
On whom, unfought, embroiling dangers fall;
Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me,
To me, through Pity's eye condemn'd to fee'
Remembrance veils his rage, but fweils his fat;
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too kt.
Young and unthoughtful then, who knows,
day,

What ripening virtues might have made their way!
He might have liv'd till folly died in thame,
Till kindling wifdom felt a thirst for fame.
He might perhaps his country's friend have prov
Both happy, generous, candid, and belov &;
He might have fav'd fome worth now doom d to fal
And I perchance, in him, have murder'd all.

O fate of late repentance, always vain!
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.
Where fhall my hope find reft:-No Mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with praver:
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'2,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to fnatch fome pow'rful arm,
First to advance, then fkreen from future harma ?
Am I return'd from death, to live in pain ?
Or would Imperial Pity fave in vain ?
Diftruft it not-what blame can mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?

Mother mifcall'd, farewel!-of foul fevere, This fad reflection yet may force one tear : All I was wretched by, to you I ow`d; Alone from ftrangers ev'ry comfort flow'd! .

Loft to the life you gave, your fon no more, And now adopted, who was doom'd before, New-born, I may a nobler Mother claim, But dare not whiffer her immortal name; Supremely lovely, and ferenely great! Majeftic Mother of a kneeling State !

QUEEN

QUEEN of a people's heart, who ne'er before
Agreed-yet now with one confent adore!
One contest yet remains in this defire,
Who moit fhall give applaufe, where all admire.

$198. On the Recovery of a Lady of Quality from the Small-Pox. SAVAGE. LONG a lov'd fair had bless'd her confort's fight

With amorous pride, and undisturb'd delight;
Till Death, grown envious, with repugnant aim
Frown'd at their joys, and urg'd a tyrant's claim.
He fummons each difeafe!-the noxious crew,
Writhing in dire diftortions, ftrike his view!
From various plagues, which various natures
know,

Forth rufhes beauty's fear'd and fervent foe.
Fierce to the fair the miffile mifchief flies,
The fanguine ftreams in raging ferments rife!
It drives, ignipotent, through every vein,
Hangs on the heart, and burns around the brain!
Now a chill damp the charmer's luftre dims!
Sad o'er her eyes the livid languor fwims!
Her eyes, that with a glance could joy infpire,
Like fetting stars, fcarce fhoot a glimmering fire.
Here ftands her confort, fore with anguish
prefs'd,

Grief in his eye, and terror in his breast.
The Paphian Graces, fmit with anxious care,
In filent forrow weep the waining fair.
Eight funs, fucceffive, roll their fire away,
And eight flow nights fee their deep fhades decay.
While thefe revolve, tho' mute each Mufe ap-

pears,

Each fpeaking eye drops cloquence in tears.
On the ninth noon great Pha bus listening bends,
On the ninth noon each voice in prayer afcends-
Great God of light, of fong, and phyfic's art,
Reftore the languid fair, new foul impart !
Her beauty, wit, and virtue, claim thy care,
And thine own bounty's almoft rivali'd there.
Each paus'd: the god affents. Would Death
advance ?

Phoebus unfeen arrefts that threatening lance!
Down from his orb a vivid influence ftreams,
And quickening earth imbibes falubrious beams;
Each balmy plant increase of virtue knows,
And art infpir'd with all her patron glows.
The charmer's opening cye kind hope reveals,
Kind hope her confort's breaft enlivening feels.
Each grace revives, each Mufe refumes the lyre,
Each beauty brightens with relumin'd fire.
As Health's auspicious pow'rs gay life display,
Death, fullen at the fight, ftalks low away.

And charm his frantic woe :
When first Diftrefs, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to wafte his deftin'd fcene,
His wild unfated foe!

By Pella's Bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy fky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Iliffus' diftant fide,

Deferted ftream, and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy ftrains,
And Echo, 'midft my native plains,
Been footh'd by Pity's lute.
There firft the wren thy myrtles thed
On gentleft Otway's infant head;

To him thy cell was fhewn:
And while he fung the female heart,
With youth's foft notes unfpoil'd by art,
Thy turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
Ev'n now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride defign:
Its fouthern fite, its truth complete
Shall raife a wild enthufiaft heat,

In all who view the thrine.
There Picture's toil fhall well relate
How chance, or hard involving fate,

O'er mortal blifs prevail:

The bufkin'd Mufe fhall near her ftand,
And fighing prompt her tender hand,

With each difaftrous tale.

There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of paffion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell:
There wafte the mournful lamp of night,、
Till, Virgin, thou again delight
To hear a Britth fhell!

And thofe, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er nature's wounds and wrecks prefide;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:
On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghaftly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

EPODE.

In earlief Greece, to thee, with partial choice, The grief-full Mufe address'd her infant tongue; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the Bard * who first invok'd thy name, Difdain'd in Marathon its pow'r to feel: For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's fteel.

But who is he, whom later garlands grace,

Who left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and furies fhar'd the baleful grove? Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queen t Sigh'd the fad call her fon and husband heard, When once alone it broke the filent feene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd. O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart, Thy withering pow'r infpir'd each mournful

line;

Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, Yet all the thunders of the fcene are thine.

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou who fuch weary length haft paft, Where wilt thou reft, mad nymph, at last ? Say, wilt thou fhrowd in haunted cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? Or in fome hollow'd fear,

'Gainft which the big waves beat,

Hear drowning feamen's cries in tempefts brought! Dark pow'r, with fhuddering meek fubmitted thought,

Be mine, to read the vifions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told.

And, left thou meet my blafted view,
Hold each ftrange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad;
When ghofts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!
O thou, whose spirit most poffefs'd
The facred feat of Shakspeare's breaft!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel;
His cyprefs wreath my meed decree ;
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

* Æfchylus.

In attic robe array'd,

O chafte, unboaftful nymph, to thee I cal!'
By all the honey'd store

On Hybla's thymy fhore,

By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs der, By her whofe love-lorn woe,

In evening mufings flow,

Sooth'd sweetly fad Electra's poet's ear :
By old Cephifus deep,

In warbled wand'tings round thy green retreat,
Who fpread his wavy fweep
On whofe enamell'd fide,

When holy Freedom died,

No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet.

O fifter meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth

Thy fober aid and native charms infuse!
The flow'rs that sweetest breathe,
Though beauty cull'd the wreath,

Still afk thy hand to range their order'd hues.
While Rome could none efteem,

But virtue's patriot theme,

You lov'd her hills, and led her laureate band; But ftaid to fing alone

To one diftinguish'd throne,

And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.

No more, in hall or bow'r,

The paffions own thy pow'r,

Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:
For thou haft left her shrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,

Shall gain thy feet to bless the fervile scene.
Though tafte, though genius blefs

To fome divine excess,

Faint's the cold work till thou infpire the whole; What each, what all fupply,

May court, may charm our eye, Thou, only thou, canft raise the meeting foul! Of these let others afk,

To aid fome mighty task,

I only feek to find thy temperate vale:
Where oft my reed might found

To maids and fhepherds round,

And all thy fons, O Nature, learn my tale.

(Him whose school above the rest
His lovelieft Elfin queen has blefs'd),
One, only one unrivall'd fair *,
My hope the magic girdle wear,
At folemn tournay hung on high,
The with of each love-darting cye:
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,

As if, in air unfeen, fome hovering hand, Some chafte and angel-friend to virgin-fame, With whisper'd fpell had burst the farting band,

It left unbleft her loath'd difhonour'd fide;
Happier hopeless fair, if never

Her baffled hand with vain endeavour
Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me divineft name,

To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven, The cell of ampleft pow'r is given, To few the godlike gift affigns, To gird their bleft prophetic loins, And gaze her vifions wild, and feel unmix'd her

flame.

The band, as fairy legends fay,
Was wove on that creating day
When he, who call'd with thought to birth
Yon tented iky, this laughing carth,
And dress'd with fprings, and forests tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd enthutiaft woo'd,
Himfelf in fome diviner mood,
Retiring, fate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his fapphire throne,
The whiles, the vaulted thrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to found,
Now fublimeft triumph swelling;
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And the from out the veiling cloud
Breath'd her magic notes aloud:

And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy fubject life was born.
The dangerous paffions kept aloof,
Far from the fainted growing woof:
But near it fat ecftatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder:
And Truth, in funny veft array'd,
By whofe the Tarfol's eyes were made
All the fhadowy tribes of mind,
In braided dance their murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted pow'rs,
Who feed on heaven's ambrofial flow'rs.
Where is the Bard whofe foul can now
Its high prefuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him defign'd?
High on fome cliff to heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude accefs, of profpect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange fhades o'erbrow the vallics deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its fprings unlock;
While on its rich ambitious head
An Eden, like his own, lies spread.

THOU, who fitt'ft a smiling bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful fide,

Gentleft of fky-born forms, and best ador'd:
Who oft with fongs, divine to hear,
Winn'ft from his fatal grafp the fspear,

And hid'ft in wreaths of flowers his bloodless fword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bofom bare art found,
Pleading for him the youth who finks to ground:
See Mercy, fee, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy thrine my country's genius ftands,
And decks thy altar ftill, tho' pierc'd with many
a wound!