A wiser founder, and a nohler plan, O sons of Alfred, were for you assign'd: Bring to that birthright but an equal mind, And no sublimer lot will Fate reserve for man.

ODE X.

TO THE MUSE.

QUEEN of my songs, harmonious maid,
Ah why hast thou withdrawn thy aid?
Ah why forsaken thus my breast
With inauspicious damps oppress'd?
Where is the dread prophetic heat,
With which my bosom wont to beat?
Where all the bright mysterious dreams
Of haunted groves and tuneful streams,
That woo'd my genius to divinest themes?

Say, goddess, can the festal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd;
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying flame?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free, poetic hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,
The soul of Milton shall I gain,

To win thee back with some celestial strain?"

O powerful strain, O sacred soul! His numbers every sense control: And now again my bosom burns; The Muse, the Muse herself, returns. Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd, I hail'd the fair immortal guest, When first she seal'd me for her own, Made all her blissful treasures known, And bade me swear to follow her alone.

ODE XI.

ON LOVE. TO A FRIEND.

No, foolish youth-to virtuous fame
If now thy early hopes be vow'd,
If true ambition's nobler flame

Command thy footsteps from the crowd,
Lean not to Love's enchanting snare;
His songs, his words, his looks beware,
Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.

By thought, by dangers, and by toils,
The wreath of just Renown is worn;
Nor will Ambition's awful spoils

The flowery pomp of Ease adorn:
But Love unbends the force of thought;
By Love unmanly fears are taught;

And Love's reward with gaudy Sloth is bought.

Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays,

And heard from many a zealous breast, The pleasing tale of Beauty's praise

In Wisdom's lofty language dress'd; Of Beauty, powerful to impart Each finer sense, each comelier art, And soothe and polish man's ungentle heart.

If then, from Love's deccit secure,
Thus far alone thy wishes tend,
Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour
On Delia's vernal walk descend:
Go, while the golden light serene,
The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene,
Becomes the presence of the rural queen.

Attend, while that harmonious tongue

Each bosom, each desire, commands: Apollo's lute by Hermes strung,

And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands, Attend. I feel a force divine,

O Delia, win my thoughts to thine; That half the colour of thy life is mine.

Yet, conscious of the dangerous charm,
Soon would I turn my steps away;
Nor oft provoke the lovely harm,

Nor lull my reason's watchful sway.
But thou, my friend-I hear thy sighs:
Alas! I read thy downcast eyes;

And thy tongue faulters; and thy colour flies.

So soon again to meet the fair?

So pensive all this absent hour? -O yet, unlucky youth, beware,

While yet to think is in thy power. In vain with friendship's flattering name Thy passion veils its inward shame; Friendship the treacherous fuel of thy flame!

Once I remember, new to Love,

And dreading his tyrannic chain,

I sought a gentle maid, to prove

What peaceful joys in friendship reign;
Whence we forsooth might safely stand,
And pitying view the love-sick band,
And mock the winged boy's malicious hand.

Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day,
To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd;
While I exulted to survey

One generous woman's real mind:
Till Friendship soon my languid breast

Each night with unknown cares possess'd,

Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd.

Fool that I was!-And now, even now
While thus I preach the Stoic strain,
Unless I shun Olympia's view,

An hour unsays it all again.

O friend!-when Love directs her eyes To pierce where every passion lies, Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?

ODE XII.

TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BART.

BEHOLD, the Balance in the sky
Swift on the wintry scale inclines;
To earthy caves the Dryads fly,

And the bare pastures Pan resigns.
Late did the farmer's fork o'erspread
With recent soil the twice-mown mead,
Tainting the bloom which autumn knows:
He whets the rusty coulter now,

He binds his oxen to the plough,

And wide his future harvest throws.

Now, London's busy confines round,
By Kensington's imperial towers,
From Highgate's rough descent profound,
Essexian heaths, or Kentish bowers,
Where'er I pass, I see approach
Some rural statesman's eager coach
Hurried by senatorial cares:
Where rural nymphs (alike within,
Aspiring courtly praise to win)

Debate their dress, reform their airs.

Say, what can now the country boast,
O Drake, thy footsteps to detain,
When peevish winds and gloomy frost
The sunshine of the temper stain?
Say, are the priests of Devon grown
Friends to this tolerating throne,

Champions for George's legal right?
Have general freedom, equal law,
Won to the glory of Nassau

Each bold Wessexian 'squire and knight?

I doubt it much; and guess at least

That when the day, which made us free, Shall next return, that sacred feast

Thou better may'st observe with me.
With me the sulphurous treason old
A far inferior part shall hold

In that glad day's triumphal strain;
And generous William be rever'd,
Nor one untimely accent heard

Of James or his ignoble reign.

Then, while the Gascon's fragrant wine
With modest cups our joy supplies,
We'll truly thank the power divine

Who bade the chief, the patriot rise;
Rise from heroic ease (the spoil
Due, for his youth's Herculean toil,

From Belgium to her saviour son)
Rise with the same unconquer'd zcal
For our Britannia's injur'd weal,

Her laws defac'd, her shrines o'erthrown.

He came. The tyrant from our shore,
Like a forbidden demon, fled;

And to eternal exile bore

Pontific rage and vassal dread. There sunk the mouldering Gothic reign: New years came forth, a liberal train,

Call'd by the people's great decree. That day, my friend, let blessings crown: -Fill, to the demigod's renown

From whom thou hast that thou art free.

Then, Drake, (for wherefore should we part
The public and the private weal?)
In vows to her who sways thy heart,

Fair health, glad fortune, will we deal.
Whether Aglaia's blooming cheek,
Or the soft ornaments that speak
So eloquent in Daphne's smile,
Whether the piercing lights that fly
From the dark heaven of Myrto's eye,
Haply thy fancy then beguile.

For so it is. Thy stubborn breast,
Though touch'd by many a slighter wound,
Hath no full conquest yet confess'd,
For the one fatal charmer found.

While I, a true and loyal swain,
My fair Olympia's gentle reign

Through all the varying seasons own.
Her genius still my bosom warms:
No other maid for me hath charms,
Or I have eyes for her alone.

ODE XIII.

ON LYRIC POETRY.

I.

ONCE more I join the Thespian choir,
And taste the inspiring fount again:
O parent of the Grecian lyre,

Admit me to thy powerful strain-
And lo! with ease my step invades
The pathless vale and opening shades,
Till now I spy her verdant seat:
And now at large I drink the sound,
While these her offspring, listening round,
By turns her melody repeat.

I see Anacreon smile and sing,

His silver tresses breathe perfume;
His cheek displays a second spring
Of roses taught by wine to bloom.
Away, deceitful cares, away,
And let me listen to his lay;

Let me the wanton pomp enjoy,
While in smooth dance the light-wing'd hours
Lead round his lyre its patron powers,
Kind laughter and convivial joy.

Broke from the fetters of his native land,

Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords, With louder impulse and a threatening hand The Lesbian patriot' smiles the sounding chords: Ye wretches, ye perfidious train, Ye curs'd of gods and free-born men, Ye murderers of the laws,

Though now ye glory in your lust,

Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust, Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause.

II.

But lo, to Sappho's melting airs

Descends the radiant queen of love: She smiles, and asks what fonder cares

Her suppliant's plaintive measures move: Why is my faithful maid distress'd? Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast!

Say, flies he?-Soon he shall pursue: Shuns he thy gifts?-He soon shall give: Slights he thy sorrows?-He shall grieve, And soon to all thy wishes bow.

But, O Melpomene, for whom

Awakes thy golden shell again?
What mortal breath shall e'er presume
To echo that unbounded strain?
Majestic in the frown of years,
Behold, the man of Thebes 2 appears:

For some there are, whose mighty frame
The hand of Jove at birth endow'd
With hopes that mock the gazing crowd;
As eagles drink the noon-tide flame,
Alcans.
2 Pindar.

While the dim raven beats her weary wings, And clamours far below.-Propitious Muse,

While I so late unlock thy purer springs, And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse, Wilt thou for Albion's sons around

(Ne'er hadst thou audience more renown'd) Thy charming arts employ,

As when the winds from shore to shore Through Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore,

Till towns and isles and seas return'd the vocal joy?

III.

Yet then did Pleasure's lawless throng,
Oft rushing forth in loose attire,
Thy virgin dance, thy graceful song,
Pollute with impious revels dire.
O fair, O chaste, thy echoing shade
May no foul discord here invade:

Nor let thy strings one accent move,
Except what Earth's untroubled ear
'Mid all her social tribes may hear,

And Heaven's unerring throne approve.

Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat

The fairest flowers of Pindus glow; The vine aspires to crown thy seat,

And myrtles round thy laurel grow:
Thy strings adapt their varied strain
To every pleasure, every pain,

Which mortal tribes were born to prove;
And straight our passions rise or fall,
As at the wind's imperious call

The ocean swells, the billows move.

When Midnight listens o'er the slumbering Earth,
Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear:
When Morning sends her fragrant breezes forth,
With airy murmurs touch my opening ear,
And ever watchful at thy side,
Let Wisdom's awful suffrage guide
The tenour 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 sway.

IV.

Oft as, to well-earn'd ease resign'd,

I quit the maze where Science toils, Do thou refresh my yielding mind

With all thy gay, delusive spoils, But, O indulgent! come not nigh The busy steps, the jealous eye

Of wealthy Care or gainful Age; Whose barren souls thy joys disdain, And hold as foes to Reason's reign

Whome'er thy lovely works engage.

When Friendship and when letter'd Mirth
Haply partake my simple board,
Then let thy blameless hand call forth
The music of the Teian chord.
Or if invok'd at softer hours,
O! seek 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 strung.

But when from Envy and from Death to claim
A hero bleeding for his native land;
When to throw incense on the vestal flame

Of Liberty my genius gives command,
Nor Theban voice nor Lesbian lyre
From thee, O Muse! do I require;
While my presaging mind,

Conscious of powers she never knew,
Astonish'd grasps at things beyond her view,
Nor by another's fate submits to be confin'd.

ODE XIV.

TO THE HON. CHARLES TOWNSHEND:

FROM THE COUNTRY.

SAY, Townshend, what can Loudon boast
To pay thee for the pleasures lost,
The health to day resign'd;
When Spring from this her favourite seat
Bade Winter hasten his retreat,

And met the western wind?

Oh! knew'st thou how the balmy air,
The Sun, the azure heavens prepare
To heal thy languid frame;
No more would noisy courts engage,
In vain would lying Faction's rage
Thy sacred leisure claim.

Oft I look'd forth, and oft admir'd;
Till with the studious volume tir'd
I sought the open day;
"And sure," 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 silent shady scat

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 nurse some infant oak
They turn the slowly-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.

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 soul oppress'd, They hide their toils divine.

But soon shall thy enlivening tongue
This heart, by dear affliction wrung,
With noble hope inspire:
Then will the sylvan powers again
Receive me in their genial train,
And listen to my lyre.

Beneath yon Dryad's lonely shade

A rustic altar shall be paid,

Of turf with laurel fram'd:

And thou the inscription wilt approve; "This for the peace which, lost by Love, By Friendship was reclaim'd."

ODE XV.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

TO NIGHT retir'd the queen of Heaven
With young Endymion strays:
And now to Hesper is it given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of lighter rays.

O Hesper! while the starry throng
With awe thy path surrounds,
Oh! listen to my suppliant song,
If haply now the vocal sphere
Can suffer thy delighted ear

To stoop to mortal sounds.

So may the bridegroom's genial strain Thee still invoke to shine:

So may the bride's unmarried train To Hymen chant their flattering vow, Still that his lucky torch may glow With lustre pure as thine.

Far other vows must I prefer
To thy indulgent power,
Alas! but now I paid my tear
On fair Olympia's virgin tomb:

And lo! from thence, in quest I roam
Of Philomela's bower.

Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm:
But lead where Music's healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.

To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.

Nor seldom, where the beachen boughs That roofless tower invade,

We come while her enchanting Muse The radiant Moon above us held: Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd, She fled the solemn shade.

But bark! I hear her liquid tone.
Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marle with moss o'ergrown,
Through you wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.

See the green space: on either hand

Enlarg'd it spreads around:

See, in the midst she takes her stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level mead, Enclos'd in woods profound.

From Hampstead's airy summit me,
Her guest, the city shall behold,
What day the people's stern decree
To unbelieving kings is told,
When common men (the dread of Fame)
Adjudg'd as one of evil name,

Before the Sun, the anointed head.
Then seek thou too the pious town,
With no unworthy cares to crown

That evening's awful shade. Deem not I call thee to deplore The sacred martyr of the day, By fast and penitential lore

To purge our ancient guilt away. For this, on humble faith I rest That still our advocate, the priest,

1 Aquarius.

From heavenly wrath will save the land; Nor ask what rites our pardon gain, Nor how his potent sounds restrain

The thunderer's lifted hand.

No, Hardinge: peace to church and state! That evening, let the Muse give law: While I anew the theme relate

Which my first youth enamour'd saw. Then will I oft explore thy thought, What to reject which Locke hath taught, What to pursue in Virgil's lay: Till Hope ascends to loftiest things, Nor envies demagogues or kings

Their frail and vulgar sway.

O! vers'd in all the human frame,
Lead thou where'er my labour lies,
And English Fancy's eager flame

To Grecian purity chastise:
While hand in hand, at Wisdom's shrine,
Beauty with Truth I strive to join,

And grave assent with glad applause ; To paint the story of the soul, And Plato's visions to control

By Verulamian 2 laws.

ODE XVII.

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY.

M.DCC.XLVII.

COME then, tell me, sage divine,

Is it an offence to own

That our bosoms e'er incline

Toward immortal Glory's throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, So can Fancy's dream rejoice,

So conciliate Reason's choice,

As one approving word of her impartial voice.

If to spurn at noble praise

Be the passport to thy Heaven, Follow thou those gloomy ways; No such law to me was given, Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me Faring like my friends before me; Nor an holier place desire

Than Timoleon's arms acquire,

And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.

ODE XVIII.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS EARL OF HUNTINGDON.

M.DCC. XLVII.

I.

THE wise and great of every clime,
Through all the spacious walks of Time,
Where'er the Muse her power display'd,
With joy have listen'd and obey'd.

2 Verulam gave one of his titles to Francis Bacon, Novum Organum.

Such was the Chian father's strain

To many a kind domestic train,
Whose pious hearth and genial bowl

Had cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul:
When, every hospitable rite

With equal bounty to requite,

He struck his magic strings;

And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth,

And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth, And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things.

Now oft, where happy spirits dwell,
Where yet he tunes his charming shell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The Genius of his country stands.
To listening gods he makes him known,
That man divine, by whom were sown
The seeds of Grecian fame:

Who first the race with freedom fir'd;
From whom Lycurgus Sparta's sons inspir'd;
From whom Plataan palms and Cyprian trophies