"Young stranger, whosoe'er thou art, "(For sure it ought to be believed, "Since in my pangs thou bear'st no part, "Far from my source, in some bleak wild, "Where Wit and Beauty never smil❜d, "Thou drew'st thy natal breath) attend, "And make our wretchedness thy own; "Not that yon lowering clouds impend, "Not that we view these groves bereav'd "Of leafy honours, do we moan; "But that from these neglected shades, "Anticipating Winter's reign, "Fair Harriet flies; who, midst the maids "That haunt the margin of yon stream, "Winding along my fertile plain, "Shone with unrivall'd elegance; "Of these unbidden tears, that force "Their passage, she, the conscious theme, "Flies, unrelenting as the wind, "Nor casts one pitying glance behind, "To bid these meads a last adieu : "Hadst thou beheld that graceful ease "With which she trod, in mazy dance "My fragrant vales and woodbine bowers, "Slighting applause, secure to please, When, votary of the rural powers, "She quitted Thames's banks, resign'd "The studied ornaments of dress, "And look'd, and was, a Shepherdess, "Thou too hadst sympathiz'd with these, "Whose smart excites thy gaiety. "Whether to term such ignorance "Of this transcendant fair, mischance, "Or bliss, I hesitate; beware Rashly the magic cup to share "Of dangerous Sensibility, "That draught, to vulgar lips denied, "Where in confusion blended lie "Th' extremes of pleasure and of pain; "Hence all its baleful dregs to miss, "Yet taste the quintessence of bliss, "Heaven's favourites, few alone attain. "Love in a slight degree beguiles "The storms of Life's precarious tide; "But if too far its Siren smiles "The guardless traveller bewitch, Headlong to rush into the snare, "Urged on by Hope, beset with Care, "Too late, solicitous to fly, "He feels it in its utmost pitch, He ended; and the bubbling fount, The court and splendid drawing-room, From scenes, where in full radiance blaze Old legend tells, on Ida's hill, Sought from his hand the golden fruit. If aught of ancient taste remains Might deem us biass'd in our choice: Whose honest judgement truth ensures That, with a Venus' person caught, Of Turenne snatch'd from Victory's arms, Which Science loved to call her own, How shall this hoarse and scrannel flute, Regarded only by my flocks, That listening browse yon thymy rocks, Tho' on my mouldering cottage wall, 1767. ODE TO JUSTICE. BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE. ETERNAL Justice, first and best Thy outstretched arm, and ensigns dread, Scanned by thy all-searching eye The impious in their mad career o'ertake, And bid within their breasts the scorpion conscience wake. Clad with the triple lightning's force, 'Midst heaven's resplendent archives stored, Pavilioned in thick darkness sleeps thy sword; Which oft cherubic Ardors bright Bathe in cerulean founts of light, Or on the blade with reverence gaze; It leaps in terror forth, and wings its destined course; |