Thither the valiant Tarfels doup,
And here rapacious Corbies croup,
With greedy Gleads and fly Gormahs,
And dinfom Pyes, and chattering Dawes ;
Proud Peacocks, and a hundred mae,
Brush'd up their pens that folemn day,
Bow'd first fubmiffive to my Lord,
Then took their places at his board.
Meantime while feafting on a fawn,
And drinking blood from Lamies drawn,
A tuneful ROBIN trig and young,
Hard-by upon a burr-tree fung.
He fang the EAGLE's royal line,
His piercing eye, and right divine
To sway out-owre the feather'd thrang,
Who dread his martial bill and fang:
His flight fublime, and eild renew'd,
His mind with clemency endow'd;
In fofter notes he fang his love,
More high, his bearing bolts for Jove.
The Monarch Bird with blithenefs heard
The chaunting little filvan Bard,
Call'd up a Buzzard, who was then
His favourite, and chamberlain.
Swith to my treasury, quoth he,
And to yon canty ROBIN gie
As muckle of our current gear
As may maintain him thro' the year;
We can well fpar't, and it's his due ;
He bade, and forth the Judas flew,
Straight to the branch where ROBIN fung;
And with a wicked lying tongue,
Said, ah! ye fing fo dull and rough,
Ye've deaf'd our lugs more than enough,
His Majesty has à nice ear,
And no more of your ftuff can bear
Poke up your pipes, be no more feen
At court, I warn you, as a frien.
He fpake, while ROBIN's fwelling breafts
And drooping wings his grief expreft;
The tears ran hopping down his cheek,
Great grew his heart, he could not speak,
No for the tinfel of reward:
But that his notes met no regard,
Strait to the fhaw he fpread his wing,
Resolv'd again no more to fing,
Where princely bounty is fuppreft
By fuch with whom They are oppreft;
Who cannot bear (because they want it)
That ought fhould be to merit granted.
BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON.
Parent of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my foul diffuse!
O'er all my artless fongs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine;
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bofom bare;
Thy waift with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd;
Waving in thy fnowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand;
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren fnow;
Whofe rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and fea:
While the vast various landscape 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,
'Midft falls of water you refide:
'Midft broken rocks, a rugged fcene,
With green and graffy dales between:
'Midft foreft dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke ;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd;
Where Nature feems 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 fhells and mofs o'erlay the floor
And on whofe top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whofe thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her neft,
Each evening warbling thee to reft.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in fome wild, poetic dream;
In converfe while methinks I rove
With Spencer thro' a fairy grove;
Till fuddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd mufic in my ear;
And my glad foul in blifs is drown'd,
By the fweetly-foothing found!
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead;
Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace refort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rofe-lip'd Hebe leads :
Where Echo walks fteep hills among,
Lift'ning to the shepherd's fong.
Yet not these flowery fields of joy,
Can long my penfive mind employ;
Hafte, FANCY, from the 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 feek.
Or to fome Abby's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wint'ry fhow'rs,
The naked beggar fhivering lies,
While whistling tempefts round her rife,
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