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As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down. O! deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by Nature giv'n
To mutual Terrour and Compassion's tears ?
No sweetly-melting softness, which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end ?-
Ask thy own fieart; when, at the midnight hour,
Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing cye,
Led by the glimm’ring taper, moves around
The sacred volumes of the dead,


songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame For Grecian heroes, where the present pow'r Oi heav'n and earth surveys th' immortal page, E'en as a father blessing, while he reads The praises of his son ; if then thy soul, Spurning the yoke of these ingiorious days, Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame : Say, wlien the prospect blackens on thy view, When rooted from the base, lieroic states Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frewn Of curs'd Ambition ;-when the pious band Oi youths that fought for freedoin and their sires Lie side by side in gore ;when ruffian Pride Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp Of public pow'r, the majesty of rule, The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe, To slavish empty pageants, to adorn A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes Of such as bow the knee ;-when honour'd urns Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust And storied arch, to glut the coward rage Of regal envy, strew the public way With hallow'd ruins !--When the muse's haunt, The marble porch wliere Wisdom, wont to talk With Socrates or Tully, bears no more, Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks, Or female Superstition's midnight pray'r ;When ruthless Rapine from the land of Time Tears the destroying sithe, with surer blow To sweep the works of Glory from their base;

Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street
Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall,
Wliere senates once the pride of monarchs doom'd,
Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds,
That, clasp the mould'ring column :-thus defac'd,
Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills
Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear
Starts frona thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove,
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car ;-
Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows, for the lot
Gf hini who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold-invested front,
And says within himself, “ I am a king,
" And wherefore should the clan'rous voice of Wo
" Intrude upon mine ear?”—The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught
Of servitude and folly, bave not yet,
Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!
Defild to such a depth of sordid shame
The native honours of the human soul,
Nor so effac'd the image of it's sire.




SAY, what is Taste, but the internal pow'rs
Active and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse: a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deform'd, or disarrang'd, or gross
In species? This nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand

Iinprints the sacred bias of the soul.
He, Mighty Parent ! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze, or light of heav'n,
Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain
Who journeys homeward from a summer-day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due

repose, he loiters to behoid
The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds
O'er all the western sky! Full soon, I ween,
His rude expression, and imtutor'd airs,
Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold
The form of Beauty smiling at his heart,
How lovely! how cominanding! But though Heav'ı

every breast hath sown these early seeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, Without enliv'ning suns and genial show'rs, And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear it's blooming head, Or yield the harvest promis'd in it's spring, Nor yet will ev'ry soil with equal stores Repay the tiller's labour; or attend His will, obsequious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel. Diff'rent minds Incline to diff'rent objects: one pursues The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; Another sighs for larmony and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires The arch of heav'n, and thunders rock the ground; When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, And Ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky; Amid the miglity uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs, All on the margin of some flow'ry stream To spread his careless limbs, amid the cool Of plantane shades, and to the list’ning deer The tale of slighted vows and Love's disdain Resounds, soft warbling, all the livelopg day:

Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious ; mute the groves ;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men. AKENSIDE.




O BLÈST of Heav'n, whon not the languid songs
Of Luxury, the siren! not the bribes
Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave
Those everblooming sweets, which from the store
Of Nature fair Imagination culls,
To charm th' enliven'd soul! What though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures, or imperial state :
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler-state
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them.

His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles, and the sculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
It's lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooning gold, and blushes like the moru.
Fach passiug hour sheds tribute from her wing;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract bim. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effuigence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade

Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fres! pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor then partakes
Fresh pleasure only for th' attentive Mind,
By this liarinonious action on her pow'rs,
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd pow'rs
Refine at length, and ev'ry passion wears
A chaster, inilder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On Nature's form, were negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal Majesty that weighed
'The world's foundations; if to these ile Mind
Exalts her daring eye; then niigutier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs?
Would sordid policies, the harb'rous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow lier down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
for what thi' eternal Maker has ordain'd
The pow'rs of man: we feel wi:hin ourselves

divine: lie tells the lieart,
He meant, he made us to beliold and love
What he beholds and loves, the gen'ral orb
Of life and being; to be great like him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men,
Whom Nature's works can charni, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to lis the relish of their souls.


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