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O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin’d leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
And all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
Mid cheerless Lapland's barren fnow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landskip lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the defart, hail ;
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Midit falls of water you refide,
'Midit broken rocks, a ragged scene,
With green and grafiy dales between,
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke
Where never human heart appear’d,
Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature seems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne ;
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o’erlay the floor,
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest :

Then

Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser thro' a fairy grove ;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-foothing found !

Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob's Peace refort,
And Venus keeps her feftive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
Andli ghtly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads;
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List’ning to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my penfive mind employ :
Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and figh!
Let'us with filent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each fad night some Virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek ;
Or to fome Abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's show'rs,

The

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The naked beggar shiv'ring lies,
While whistling tempefts round her rise,
And trembles left the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear ;
Give me another horfe, I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly :
Whence is this rage? What fpirit, say,
To battles hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead :
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fullenjoy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to the' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-Thield !

O guide me from this horrid fcene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day fun ;

of absence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canft fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss.

The pang's

When

When young ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose ;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns feeks,
And stains with wine his jolly-cheeks,
When Winter like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold,
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy folemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm,

enthusiastic maid,
Without thy pow'rful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line ;
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallowed strain,
Nor dare to touch the sacred ftring,
Save when with smiles thou bid'st me fing

O hear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,
On which thou lov’st to fit at eve,
Mufing o'er thy darling grave;
O Queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen fwain,
Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly strike the founding lyre,
May rise above the rhyming throng,
And with some new unequallid song
O'er all our liftning paffions reign,
O’erwhelm our souls with joy and pain ;
With terror shake, with pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love,

1

O deiga

O deign t'attend his evening walk,
With him in

groves and

grottos talk :
Teach him to scorn with frigid art
Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
Like lightning let his mighty verse
The bofom's inmost foldings pierce :
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critic's studied laws :
Olet each Mufe's fame increase,
O bid Britannia rival Greece !

WARTON

CH A P. XVI.

L' A L L E G R O.

HENCE loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and fights unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night raven fings ;

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desart ever dwell.
But come thou Goddess fair and free,
In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two fifter Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ;

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