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THE MANNERS.

AN ODE.

FAREWELL, for clearer Ken design'd,
The dim-discover'd Tracts of Mind :
Truths which, from Action's Paths retir'd,
My silent Search in vain requir’d!
No more my Sail that Deep explores,
No more I search those magic Shores,
What Regions part the World of Soul,
Or whence thy Streams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round such Fairy Field,
Some Pow'r impart the Spear and Shield,
At which the Wizzard Passions fly,
By which the Giant Follies die!

Farewell the Porch whose Roof is seen,
Arch'd with th' enlivening Olive's Green:
Where Science, prank'd in tissued Vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,
Comes like a Bride so trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's Shade!

Youth of the quick uncheated Sight,
Thy Walks, Observance, more invite!
0 Thou, who lov'st that ampler Range,
Where Life's wide Prospects round thee change,
And with her mingling Sons ally'd,
Throw'st the prattling Page aside:
To me in Converse sweet impart,
To read in Man the native Heart,
To learn, where Science sure is found,
From Nature as she lives around :
And gazing oft her Mirror true,
By turns each shifting Image view!

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Till meddling Art's officious Lore,
Reverse the Lessons taught before,
Alluring from a safer Rule,
To dream in her enchanted School;
Thou Heav'n, whate'er of Great we boast,
Hast blest this social Science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful Cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent Spell,
Not vain she finds the charmful Task,
In Pageant quaint, in motley Mask,
Behold before her musing Eyes,
The countless Manners round her rise;
While ever varying as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her Glass :
With these the white-rob’d Maids combine,
And those the laughing Satyrs join !
But who is He whom now she views,
In Robe of wild contending Hues?
Thou by the Passions nurs'd, I greet
The comic Sock that binds thy Feet!
O Humour, Thou whose Name is known
To Britain's favor'd Isle alone:
Me too amidst thy Band admit,
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,
(Whose Jewels in his crisped Hair
Are plac'd each other's Beams to share,
Whom no Delights from Thee divide)
In Laughter loos’d attends thy Side !

By old Miletus * who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven Song:
By all you taught the Tuscan Maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern Shades :
By Him † whose Knight's distinguish'd Name
Refind a Nation's Lust of Fame;
* Alluding to the Milesian Tales, some of the earliest Ro-
Whose Tales ev'n now, with Echos sweet,
Castilia's Moorish Hills repeat:
Or Him I, whom Seine's blue Nymphs deplore,
In watchet Weeds on Gallia’s Shore,
Who drew the sad Sicilian Maid,
By Virtues in her Sire betray'd:

+ Cervantes.

mances.

O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful Thought, each prompted Deed;
If but from Thee I hope to feel,
On all my Heart imprint thy Seal !
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those oft-turn'd Scrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this Hour agree,
To rove thy Scene-full World with Thee !

Monsieur Le Sage, Author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the Year 1745.

THE PASSIONS.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

WHEN Music, Heav'nly Maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft to hear her Shell,
Throng'd around her magic Cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's Painting ;
By turns they felt the glowing Mind,
Disturb’d, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir’d,
Filld with Fury, rapt, inspir’d,
From the supporting Myrtles round,
They snatch'd her Instruments of Sound,
And as they oft had heard a-part
Sweet Lessons of her forceful Art,
Each, for Madness ruld the Hour,
Would prove his own expressive Pow'r.
First Fear his Hand, its Skill to try,

Amid the Chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoild he knew not why,

Ev'n at the Sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his Eyes on fire,

In Lightnings own'd his secret Stings, In one rude Clash he struck the Lyre,

And swept with hurried Hand the Strings. With woful Measures wan Despair

Low sullen Sounds his Grief beguild, A solemn, strange, and mingled Air,

'Twas sad by Fits, by Starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with Eyes so fair,

What was thy delightful Measure ? Still it whisper'd promis'd Pleasure,

And bad the lovely Scenes at distance hail ! Still would Her Touch the Strain prolong,

And from the Rocks, the Woods, the Vale, She call'd on Echo still thro' all the Song;

And, where Her sweetest Theme She chose,

A soft responsive Voice was heard at ev'ry Close, And Hope enchanted smild, and wav'd Her golden

Hair.

And longer had She sung, - but with a Frown,

Revenge impatient rose,
He threw his blood-stain'd Sword in Thunder down,

And with a with'ring Look,
The War-denouncing Trumpet took,
And blew a Blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er Prophetic Sounds so full of Woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling Drum with furious Heat; And tho' sometimes each dreary Pause between,

Dejected Pity at his Side,

Her Soul-subduing Voice applied, Yet still He kept his wild unalter'd Mien, While each straind Ball of Sight seem'd bursting

from his Head.

Thy Numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix’d,

Sad Proof of thy distressful State, Of difforing Themes the veering Song was mix’d, And now it courted Love, now raving calld on

Hate.

With Eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sate retird,

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