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In her gay zone, by artful Fancy fram'd,
The bright rose blush'd, the full carnation flam'd.
Her cheeks the glow of splendid clouds display,
And her eyes flash insufferable day.

With milder air the gentle Autumn came,
But seem'd to languish at her sister's flame.
Yet, conscious of her boundless wealth, she bore
On high the emblems of her golden store.
Yet could she boast the plenty-pouring hand,
The liberal smile, benevolent and bland.
Nor might she fear in beauty to excel,
From whose fair head such golden tresses fell;
Nor might she envy Summer's flowery zone,
In whose sweet eye the star of evening shone.
Next, the pale power that blots the golden

Wreath'd her grim brows, and roll'd her stormy


"Behold," she cried, with voice that shook the ground,

(The bard, the sisters, trembled at the sound)
"Ye weak admirers of a grape, or rose,
Behold my wild magnificence of snows!
See my keen frost her glassy bosom bare!
Mock the faint Sun, and bind the fluid air!
Nature to you may lend a painted hour,
With you may sport, when I suspend my power.
But you and Nature, who that power obey,
Shall own my beauty, or shall dread my sway."
She spoke the bard, whose gentle heart ne'er

One pain or trouble that he knew to save,
No favour'd nymph extols with partial lays,
But gives to each her picture for her praise.

Mute lies his lyre in death's uncheerful gloom,
And Truth and Genius weep at Thomson's tomb.
Yet still the Muse's living sounds pervade
Her ancient scenes of Caledonian shade.
Still Nature listens to the tuneful lay,
On Kilda's mountains and in Endermay.

Th' ethereal brilliance of poetic fire, The mighty hand that smites the sounding lyre, Strains that on Fancy's strongest pinion rise, Conceptions vast, and thoughts that grasp the skies,

To the rapt youth that mus'd on Shakespear's
To Ogilvie the Muse of Pindar gave. [grave7,
Time, as he sung, a moment ceas'd to fly,
And lazy Sleep 9 unfolded half his eye.

O wake, sweet bard, the Theban lyre again;
With ancient valour swell the sounding strain;
Hail the high trophies by thy country won,
The wreaths that flourish for each valiant son.
While Hardyknute frowns red with Norway's

Paint her pale matrons weeping on the shore.
Hark! the green clarion pouring floods of breath
Voluminously loud; high scorn of death
Each gallant spirit elates; see Rothsay's thane
With arm of mountain oak his firm bow strain!
Hark! the string twangs-the whizzing arrow

The fierce horse falls indignant falls-and dies. O'er the dear urn, where glorious Wallace l sleeps,

True valour bleeds, and patriot virtue weeps. Son of the lyre, what high ennobling strain, What meed from these shall generous Wallace Who greatly scorning an usurper's pride, [gain? Bar'd his brave breast for liberty, and died.

Boast, Scotland, boast thy sons of mighty name, Thine ancient chiefs of high heroic fame, Souls that to death their country's foes oppos'd, And life in freedom, glorious freedom, clos'd.

Where, yet bewail'd, Argyle's warm ashes lie, Let Music breathe her most persuasive sigh. To him, what Heaven to man could give, it gave, Wise, generous, honest, eloquent and brave, Genius and Valour for Argyle shall mourn, And his own laurels flourish round his urn. O, may they bloom beneath a fav'ring sky, And in their shade Reproach and Envy die !

'See Mr. Ogilvie's Ode to the Genius of Shakespear.

3 Ode to Time. Ibid. 9 Ode to Sleep. Ibid.

10 William Wallace, who, after bravely defending his country against the arms of Edward I. was executed as a rebel, though he had taken nu oath of allegiance.

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CHILDREN of Fancy, whither are ye fled? Where have ye borne those hope-enliven'd hours,

That once with myrtle garlands bound my head, That once bestrew'd my vernal path with flowers?

In yon fair vale, where blooms the beechen grove, Where winds the slow wave thro' the flowery plain,

To these fond arms you led the tyrant, Love, With Fear and Hope and Folly in his train. My lyre, that, left at careless distance, hung Light on some pale branch of the osier shade, To lays of amorous blandishment you strung,

And o'er my sleep the lulling music play'd. "Rest, gentle youth! while on the quivering breeze

Slides to thine ear this softly-breathing strain; Sounds that move smoother than the steps of ease, And pour oblivion in the ear of pain.

"In this fair vale eternal Spring shall smile,

And Time unenvious crown each roseate hour; Eternal joy shall every care beguile,

"The genial power that speeds the golden dart, Each charm of tender passion shall inspire; With fond affection fill the mutual heart, And feed the flame of ever-young desire. "Come, gentle Loves! your myrtle garlands bring;

The smiling bower with cluster'd roses spread; Come, gentle airs! with incense-dropping wing The breathing sweets of vernal odour shed. "Hark, as the strains of swelling music rise,

How the notes vibrate on the fav'ring gale! Auspicions glories beam along the skies, And powers unseen the happy moments hail !

"Extatic hours! so every distant day

Like this serene on downy wings shall move; Rise crown'd with joys that triumph o'er decay, The faithful joys of Fancy and of Love."


AND were they vain, those soothing lays ye sung?

Children of Fancy! yes, your song was vain; Breathe in each gale, and bloom in every On each soft air though rapt Attention hung,


"This silver stream, that down its crystal way Frequent has led thy musing steps along, Shall, still the same, in sunny mazes play,

And with its murmurs melodise thy song. "Unfading green shall these fair groves adorn; Those living meads immortal flowers unfold; In rosy smiles shall rise each blushing morn,

And every evening close in clouds of gold. "The tender Loves that watch thy slumbering rest, And round thee flowers and balmy myrtles strew, Shall charm, thro' all approaching life, thy breast, With joys for ever pure, for ever new.

And Silence listen'd on the sleeping plain.
The strains yet vibrate on my ravish'd ear,
And still to smile the mimic beauties seem,
Though now the visionary scenes appear
Like the faint traces of a vanish'd dream.
Mirror of life! the glories thus depart

Of all that youth and love and fancy frame, When painful Anguish speeds the piercing dart, Or Envy blasts the blooming flowers of fame. Nurse of wild wishes, and of fond desires,

The prophetess of Fortune, false and vain, To scenes where Peace in Ruin's arms expires Fallacious Hope deludes her hapless train.

Go, Siren, go-thy charms on others try;
My beaten bark at length has reach'd the shore:
Yet on the rock my dropping garments lie;
And let me perish if I trust thee more.
Come, gentle Quiet! long-neglected maid!
O come, and lead me to thy mossy cell;
There unregarded in the peaceful shade,

With calm Repose and Silence let me dwell.

Come happier hours of sweet unanxious rest, When all the struggling passions shall subside;

When Peace shall clasp me to her plumy breast,

And smooth my silent minutes as they glide. But chief, thou goddess of the thoughtless eye, Whom never cares or passions discompose, O, blest Insensibility, be nigh,

And with thy soothing hand my weary eyelids close.

Then shall the cares of love and glory cease,
And all the fond anxieties of fame;
Alike regardless in the arms of Peace,

If these extol, or those debase a name.
In Lyttelton though all the Muses praise,
His generous praise shall then delight no more,
Nor the sweet magic of his tender lays

Shall touch the bosom which it charm'd before.

Nor then, though Malice, with insidious guise

Of Friendship, ope the unsuspecting breast; Nor then, tho' Envy broach her blackening lies, Shall these deprive me of a moment's rest. O state to be desir'd! when hostile rage Prevails in human more than savage haunts; When man with man eternal war will wage,

And never yield that mercy which he wants.
When dark Design invades the cheerful hour,
And draws the heart with social freedom warm,
Its cares, its wishes, and its thoughts to pour,
Smiling insidious with the hopes of harm.
Vain man, to other's failings still severe,

Yet not one foible in himself can find;
Another's faults to Folly's eye are clear,
But to her own e'en Wisdom's self is blind.
O let me still, from these low follies free,
This sordid malice, and inglorious strife,
Myself the subject of my censure be,

And teach my heart to comment on my life. With thee, Philosophy; still let me dwell,

My tutor❜d mind from vulgar meanness save; Bring Peace, bring Quiet to my humble cell, And bid them lay the green turf on my grave.


BRIGHT o'er the green hills rose the morning ray,
The wood-lark's song resounded on the plain;
Fair Nature felt the warm embrace of day,
And smil'd thro' all her animated reign.
When young Delight, of Hope and Fancy-born,
His head on tufted wild thyme half-reclin❜d,
Caught the gay colours of the orient morn,

And thence of life this picture vain design'd.

"O born to thoughts, to pleasures more sublime
Than beings of inferior nature prove!
To triumph in the golden hours of time,

And feel the charins of fancy and of love!
"High-favour'd man! for him unfolding fair
In orient light this native landscape smiles;
For him sweet Hope disarms the hand of Care,
Exalts his pleasures, and his grief beguiles.
"Blows not a blossom on the breast of Spring,
Breathes not a gale along the bending mead,
Trills not a songster of the soaring wing,

But fragrance, health, and melody succeed.
"O let me still with simple Nature live,
My lowly field-flowers on her altar lay,
Enjoy the blessings that she meant to give,
And calmly waste my inoffensive day!
"No titled name, no envy.teasing dome,

No glittering wealth my tutor'd wishes crave; So Health and Peace be near my humble home, A cool stream murmur, and a green tree wave: "So may the sweet Euterpe not disdain

At Eve's chaste hour her silver lyre to bring; The Muse of pity wake her soothing strain,

And tune to sympathy the trembling string. "Thus glide the pensive moments, o'er the vale While floating shades of dusky night descend: Not left untold the lover's tender tale,

Nor unenjoyed the heart-enlarging friend. "To love and friendship flow the social bowl! To attic wit and elegance of mind ;

To all the native beauties of the soul,

The simple charms of truth, and sense refin'd. "Then to explore whatever ancient sage

Studious from Nature's early volume drew,
To chase sweet Fiction through her golden age,
And mark how fair the sun-flower, Science,

Haply to catch some spark of eastern fire,
Hesperian fancy, or Aonian ease;

Some melting note from Sappho's tender lyre,
Some strain that Love and Phoebus taught to


"When waves the grey light o'er the mountain's head, [ray;

Then let me meet the morn's first beauteous Carelessly wander from my sylvan shed,

And catch the sweet breath of the rising day. "Nor seldom, loitering as I muse along, [bore; Mark from what flower the breeze its sweetness Or listen to the labour-soothing song

Of bees that range the thymy uplands o'er. "Slow let me climb the mountain's airy brow, The green height gain'd, in museful rapture Sleep to the murmur of the woods below, [lie, Or look on Nature with a lover's eye.

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OH! yet, ye dear, deluding visions stay!
Fond hopes, of Innocence and Fancy born!
For you I'll cast these waking thoughts away,
For one wild dream of life's romantic morn.
Ah! no the sunshine o'er each object spread
By flattering Hope, the flowers that blew so
Like the gay gardens of Armida, fled, [fair,


And vanish'd from the powerful rod of Care. So the poor pilgrim, who in rapturous thought Plans his dear journey to Loretto's shrine, Seems on his way by guardian seraphs brought, Sees aiding angels favour his design. Ambrosial blossoms, such of old as blew

By those fresh founts on Eden's happy plain, And Sharon's roses all his passage strew:

So Faney dreams; but Fancy's dreams are vain.

Wasted and weary on the mountain's side,

His way unknown, the hapless pilgrim lies, Or takes some ruthless robber for his guide, And prone beneath his cruel sabre dies. Life's morning-landscape gilt with orient light, Where Hope and Joy and Fancy hold their reign, [bright, The grove's green wave, the blue stream sparkling The blythe Hours dancing round Hyperion's


In radiant colours youth's free hand pourtrays, Then holds the flattering tablet to his eye; Nor thinks how soon the vernal grove decays, Nor sees the dark cloud gathering o'er the sky. Hence Fancy conquer'd by the dart of Pain,

And wandering far from her Platonic shade, Mourns o'er the ruins of her transient reign, Nor unrepining sees her visions fade. Their parent banish'd, hence her children fly, The fairy race that fill'd her festive train; Joy tears his wreath, and Hope inverts her eye, And Folly wonders that her dream was vaín.



SPIRITS of music, and ye powers of song,
That wak'd to painful melody the lyre
Of young Jessides, when, in Sion's vale
He wept o'er bleeding friendship; ye that

While Freedom, drooping o'er Euphrates' stream,
Her pensive harp on the pale osier hung,
Begin once more the sorrow soothing-lay.

Ah! where shall now the Muse fit numbers find?

What accents pure to greet thy tuneful shade,
Sweet harmonist? 'twas thine, the tender fall
Of pity's plaintive lay; for thee the stream
Of silver-winding music sweeter play'd,
And purer flow'd for thee-all silent now

Those airs' that, breathing o'er the breast o


Led amorous Echo down the long, long vale,
Delighted; studious from thy sweeter strain
To melodise her own; when fancy-lorn,
She mourns in anguish o'er the drooping breast
Of young Narcissus. From their amber urns,
Parting their green locks streaming in the sun2,
The Naiads rose and smil'd: nor since the day,
When first by music, and by freedom led
From Grecian Acidale; nor since the day,
When last from Arno's weeping fount they came,
To smooth the ringlets of Sabrina's hair,
Heard they like minstrelsy-fountains and shades
Of Twit'nam, and of Windsor fam'd in song!
Ye heights of Clermont, and ye bowers of Hain!
That heard the fine strain vibrate through your

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sweet queen,

That nightly wrapt thy Milton's hallow'd ear In the soft ecstacies of Lydian airs;

That since attun'd to Handel's high-wound lyre The lay by thee suggested; could'st not thou Soothe with thy sweet song the grim fury's breast4?

Nor Virtue's smile attracts, nor Fame's loud Cold-hearted Death! his wanly-glaring eye trump

Can pierce his iron ear, for ever barr'd
To gentle sounds: the golden voice of song,
That charms the gloomy partner of his birth,
That soothes despair and pain, he hears no more,
Than rude winds, blust'ring from the Cambrian


The traveller's feeble lay. To court fair Fame,
To toil with slow steps up the star-crown'd hill,
Where Science, leaning on her sculptur'd urn,
Looks conscious on the secret-working hand
Of Nature; on the wings of Genius borne,
To soar above the beaten walks of life,
Is, like the paintings of an evening cloud,
Th' amusement of an hour. Night, gloomy Night,
Spreads her black wings, and all the vision dies.

Ere long, the heart, that heaves this sigh to

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Subline, above the mortal bounds of Earth,
With heavenly fire relume her feeble ray,
And, taught by seraphs, frame her song for thee.
I feel, I feel the sacred impulse-hark!
Wak'd from according lyres the sweet strains flow
In symphony divine: from air to air
The trembling numbers fly: swift bursts away
The flow of joy-now swells the flight of praise
Springs the shrill trump aloft; the toiling chords
Melodious labour through the flying maze;
And the deep base his strong sound rolls away,
Majestically sweet-Yet, Handel, raise,
Yet wake to higher strains thy sacred lyre:
The Name of ages, the Supreme of things,
The great Messiah asks it: He whose hand
Led into form yon everlasting orbs,
The harmony of Nature-He whose hand
Stretch'd o'er the wilds of space this beauteous

Whose spirit breathes through all his smiling works

Music and love—yet, Handel, raise the strain.
Hark! what angelic sounds, what voice divine
Breathes through the ravisht air! my rapt car

The harmony of Heaven. Hail sacred choir !
Immortal spirits, hail! If haply those
That erst in favour'd Palestine proclaim'd
Glory and peace: her angel-haunted groves,
Her piny mountains, and her golden vales
Re-echo'd peace-But, Oh, suspend the strain-
The swelling joy's too much for mortal bounds!
'Tis transport even to pain.

Yet, hark! what pleasing sounds invite mine
So venerably sweet? 'Tis Sion's lute. [ear
Behold her hero 5! from his valiant brow
Looks Judah's lion, on his thigh the sword
Of vanquish'd Apollonius-The shrill trump

Judas Maccabeus.

Through Bethoron proclaims the approaching fight,

I see the brave youth lead his little band,
With toil and hunger faint; yet from his arm
The rapid Syrian flies. Thus Henry once,
The British Henry, with his way-worn troop,
Subdu'd the pride of France-Now louder blows
The martial clangor: lo Nicanor's host!
With threat'ning turrets crown'd, slowly advance
The ponderous elephants-

The blazing Sun, from many a golden shield
Reflected gleams afar. Judean chief!
How shall thy force, thy little force, sustain
The dreadful shock!

The hero comes-'Tis boundless mirth and song,
And dance and triumph; every labouring string,
And voice, and breathing shell in concert strain
To swell the raptures of tumultuous joy.

O master of the passions and the soul, Seraphic Handel! how shall words describe Thy music's countless graces, nameless powers! When he of Gaza7, blind and sunk in chains, On female treachery looks greatly down, How the breast burns indignant! in thy strain, When sweet-voic'd piety resigns to Heaven, Glows not each bosom with the flame of virtue ?

O'er Jeptha's votive maid when the soft lute Sounds the slow symphony of funeral grief, What youthful breast but melts with tender pity? What parent bleeds not with a parent's woe?

O, longer than this worthless lay can live! While fame and music soothe the human ear; Be this thy praise: to lead the polish'd mind To virtue's noblest heights; to light the flame Of British freedom, rouse the generous thought, Refine the passions, and exalt the soul To love, to Heaven, to harmony and thee.

6 Chorus of youths, in Judas Maccabeus. 7 See the Oratorio of Samson.





WHERE is the man, who, prodigal of mind,
In one wide wish embraces human kind?
All pride of sects, all party zeal above,
Whose priest is Reason, and whose god is Love;
Fair Nature's friend, a foe to fraud and art-
Where is the man so welcome to my heart?

The sightless herd sequacious, who pursue
Dull folly's path, and do as others do,
Who look with purblind prejudice and scorn,
On different sects, in different nations born,
Let us, my Craufurd, with compassion view,
Pity their pride, but shun their errour too.

From Belvidere's fair groves, and mountains Which Nature rais'd, rejoicing to be seen,[green, Let us, while raptur'd on her works we gaze, And the heart riots on luxurious praise, Th' expanded thought, the boundless wish retain, And let not Nature moralize in vain.

O sacred guide! preceptress more sublime Than sages boasting o'er the wrecks of time! See on each page her beauteous volume bear The golden characters of good and fair. All human knowledge (blush collegiate pride!) Flows from her works, to none that reads denied. Shall the dull inmate of pedantic walls, On whose old walk the sun-beam seldom falls,

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