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it is dangerous to approach the contend among my equals, now agibanks of a river baited with so many tated with fear, and now crowned mischiefs. Ever then may it be my with victory! Let Philemon, then, lot to be crowned, Oh king Pto- enjoy in Ægypt the allurements held lemy, with the ivy of Attica !* May out to me; he has no Glycera, nor I meet death in my own country, perhaps is he worthy of such a ble and be buried in the land of my fa. sing. But do thou, I intreat thee, thers ! May I join in the annual my dear Glycera, as soon as the celebration of Bacchus before our Haloan feasts are finished, come flyaltars, and be initiated in the com- ing to me upon your mule. plete course of religious mysteries ! I never knew the festival so tea At our annual exhibitions may I pre- dious before, or so unseasonable. sent every now and then some new May'st thou at last, Oh Ceres, be play,t and laugh, and rejoice, and propitious !

* Crowned with the ivy of Attica.] Menander takes this method elegantly to insinuate his determination never to quit Attica, his native land.

+ It is remarkable that Menander bore away the prize only eight times, though he exhibited a hundred and five dramas. Philemon, a writer of inferior celebrity, but who found means to obtain influence among the judges, was frequently complimented with the honours which more properly belonged to Menander. Of this Menander was so conscious, that, meeting one day with Philemon, he said, “ dost thou not blush, oh, Philemon, when the judges decide the contest in thy favour ?»

POETRY.

PO E T R Y.

ODE for the New Year, 1791. By Henry James Pye, esq.

Poet Laureat.

W

I.
CHEN from the bosom of the mine

The magnet first to light was thrown,
Fair Commerce bail'd the gift divine,

And, smiling, claim'd it for her own, “ My bark,” she said, “ this gem shall guide “ Through paths of ocean yet untried, “ While as my daring sons explore “ Each rude inhospitable shore, «« 'Mid desart sands and ruthless skies, “ New seats of industry shall rise, “ And culture wide extend its genial reign, “ Free as the ambient gale, and boundless as the main.”

II.
But Tyranny soon learn'd to seize

The art improving Science taught,
The white sail courts the distant breeze,

With horror and destruction fraught;
From the tall mast fell War unfurl'd
His banners to a new-found world;
Oppression arm'd with giant Pride,
And bigot Fury by her side ;
Dire Desolation bath'd in blood,

Pale Av'rice, and her harpy brood,
To each affrighted shore in thunder spoke,
And bow'd the wretched race to Slavery's iron yoke.

III.
Not such the gentler views that urge
Britannia's sons to dare the surge;
Not such the gifts her Drake, her Raleigh bore
To the wild inmates of th' Atlantic shore,
Teaching each drear wood's pathless scene
The glories of their Virgin Qucen-

Nor

Nor such her later chiefs, who try,
Impell'a by soft Humanity,
The boist'rous wave, the rugged coast,

The burning zone, the polar frost,
That climes remote, and regions yet unknown,
May share a GEORGE's sway, and bless his patriot throne.

IV.
Warm Fancy, kindling with delight,

Anticipates the lapse of age,
And as she throws her eagle's sight

O'er Time's yet undiscover'd page,
Vast continents, now dark with shade,
She sees in Verdure's robe array’d;
Sees o'er each island's fertile steep
That frequent studs the southern deep,
His fleecy charge the shepherd lead,

The harvest wave, the vintage bleed ;
Sees Commerce, springs of guiltless wealth explore,
Where frowns the western world on Asia's neighbouring shore.

v. But lo! across the blackening skies

What swarthy dæmon wings his flight?
At once the transient landscape flies,

The splendid vision sets in night.-
And see Britannia's awful form,
With breast undaunted, brave the storm :
Awful, as when her angry tide
O’erwhelm'd the wrecked Armada's pride,
Awful, as when th' avenging blow

Suspending o'er a prostrate foe,
She snatch'd, in Vict'ry's moment prompt to save,
Iberia's sinking sons from Calpe's glowing wave.

VI.
Ere yet the Tempest's mingled sound
Burst dreadful o'er the nations round,
What angel shape, in beaming radiance dight,
Pours through the severing clouds celestial light!
”Tis Peace-before her seraph eye
The fiends of Devastation fly.
Auspicious round our monarch's brow
She twines her olive's sacred bough;
This victory, she cries, is mine,
Nor torn from War's terrific shrine !
Mine, the pure trophies of the wise and good,
Unbought by scenes of woc, and undefiled with blood.

ODE ODE for his MAJESTY's Birth Day, June 4, 1791. By Henry

James Pye, esq. Poet Laureat.

OUD the whirlwind rag'd around

That shook affrighted Britain's shore,
In peals of louder thunder drown'd

That mingled with the wint’ry roar ;
Dreadful amid the driving storm
The gliding meteor's horrid form

With transient gleam illum'd the air,
While through December's murky night
Refulgent with unwonted light,

The livid flashes glare.
But see! the radiant Lord of Day

Now northward rolls his burning car,
And scatters with victorious ray
The
rage

of elemental war.
To rest the troubled waves subside,
And gently o'er the curling tide

Young Zephyr leads the vernal hours,
Adorns with richest dyes the vale,
And fragrance wafts on ev'ry gale

From June's ambrosial flowers.

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Ode on CAMBRIA, a Mountain in Cornwall,

by Peter Pindar, esq.

yonder solitary

I roam at midnight's spectred hour,

And climb the wild majestic height:
Low to the mountain let me rev’rence bow,
Where Wisdom, Virtue, taught their founts to flow,

Pale on a rock's aspiring steep,

Behold a Druid sits forlorn,
I see the white-rob’d phantom weep,

I hear his harp of sorrow mourn.
The vanish'd grove provokes his deepest sigh,
And altars open'd to the gazing eye.
Permit me, Druid, here to stray,

And ponder 'mid thy drear retreat;
To wail the solitary way

Where Wisdom held her hallow'd seat; Here let me roam, in spite of Folly's smile, A pensive pilgrim, o'er each pitied pile. Poor ghost ! no more the Druid race

Shall here their sacred fires relume:
No more their show'rs of incense blaze;

No more their tapers gild the gloom.
Lo! snakes obscene along the temples creep,
And foxes on the broken altars sleep.
No more beneath the golden brook,

The treasures of the grove shall fall;
Time triumphs o'er each blasted oak,

Whose power at length shall crush the ball. Led by the wrinkled Pow'r, with gladden'd mien, Gigantic Ruin treads the weeping scene.

No more the bards, in strains sublime,

The actions of the brave proclaim, Thus rescuing from the rage of Time

Each glorious deed approv'd by Fame. Deep in the dust each lyre is laid unstrung, While mute for ever stops each tuneful tongue.

Here

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