But, O Melpomene, for whom
Awakes thy golden fhell again?
What mortal breath fhall e'er prefume
To echo that unbounded ftrain ?
Majestic in the frown of years,
Behold, the man of Thebes appears :
For fome there are, whose mighty frame
The hand of Jove at birth indow'd
With hopes that mock the gazing crowd;
As eagles drink the noon-tide flame,
While the dim raven beats her weary wings,
And clamours far below.-Propitious Mufe,
While I fo late unlock thy purer springs,
And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse,
Wilt thou for Albion's fons around
(Ne'er hadft thou audience more renown'd)
Thy charming arts employ,
As when the winds from fhore to shore
Through Greece thy lyre's perfuafive language bore, Till towns and ifles and feas return'd the vocal joy?
Yet then did Pleafure's lawless throng,
Oft rushing forth in loose attire,
Thy virgin dance, thy graceful fong,
Pollute with impious revels dire..
O fair, O chaste, thy echoing fhade
May no foul discord here invade :
Nor let thy ftrings one accent move,
Except what earth's untroubled ear
'Mid all her focial tribes may hear,
And Heaven's unerring throne approve
III. 2.
Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat
The fairest flowers of Pindus glow;
The vine afpires to crown thy feat,
And myrtles round thy laurel grow:
Thy ftrings adapt their varied strain
To every pleasure, every pain,
Which mortal tribes were born to prove ;
And ftrait our paffions rife or falt,
As at the wind's imperious call
The ocean fwells, the billows move.
When midnight liftens o'er the flumbering earth,
Let me, O Mufe, thy folemn whispers hear:
When morning fends her fragrant breezes forth,
With airy murmurs touch my opening ear.
And ever watchful at thy fide,
Let Wifdom's awful fuffrage guide
The tenor of thy lay:
To her of old by Jove was given
To judge the various deeds of earth and heaven; 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her fway.
Oft as, to well-earn'd ease refign'd,
I quit the maze where fcience toils,
Do thou refresh my yielding mind
With all thy gay, delufive fpoils.
But, O indulgent, come not nigh
The bufy fteps, the jealous eye
Of wealthy care or gainful age;
Whofe barren fouls thy joys difdain,
And hold as foes to reafon's reign
Whome'er thy lovely works engage.
When Friendship and when letter'd Mirth
Haply partake my fimple board,
Then let thy blameless hand call forth
The mufic of the Teian chord.
Or if invok'd at fofter hours,
O! feek with me the happy bowers
That hear Olympia's gentle tongue;
To Beauty link'd with Virtue's train,
To Love devoid of jealous pain,
There let the Sapphic lute be ftrung.
But when from envy and from death to claim
A hero bleeding for his native land;
When to throw incenfe on the vestal flame
Of liberty my genius gives command,
Nor Theban voice nor Lesbian lyre
From thee, O Mufe, do I require;
While my prefaging mind,
Confcious of powers she never knew, Aftonish'd grafps at things beyond her view, Nor by another's fate submits to be confin'd.
A Y, Townshend, what can London boast
To pay thee for the pleasures loft,
The health to-day refign'd;
When Spring from this her favourite feat
Bade Winter haften his retreat,
And met the western wind.
Oh knew'st thou how the balmy air,
The fun, the azure heavens prepare
To heal thy languid frame;
No more would noisy courts engage,
In vain would lying Faction's rage
Thy facred leisure claim.
Oft I'look'd forth, and oft admir'd;
Till with the ftudious volume tir'd'
I fought the open day;
And fure, I cry'd, the rural gods
Expect me in their green abodes,
And chide my tardy stay.
But ah in vain my restless feet
Trac'd every filent fhady feat
Which knew their forms of old:
Nor Naiad by her fountain laid,
Nor Wood-nymph tripping through her glade,
Did now their rites unfold:
Whether to nurfe fome infant oak
They turn the flowly-tinkling brook
And catch the pearly showers,
Or brush the mildew from the woods,
Or paint with noon-tide beams the buds,
Or breathe on opening flowers.
VI.
Such rites, which they with Spring renew,
The eyes of care can never view;
And care hath long been mine:
And hence offended with their guest,
Since grief of love my foul opprefs'd,
They hide their toils divine.
But foon fhall thy enlivening tongue
This heart, by dear affliction wrung,
With noble hope inspire :
Then will the fylvan powers again
Receive me in their genial train,
And liften to my lyre.
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