Next, cleans'd from his unhallow'd scum, The mighty Juvenal shall come,

And high his vengeance wield:

His satires sound the loud alarm
To vice; she sees his lifted arm,

And, cowering, quits the field.

In vain should I expect delight
From Persius, wrapt in tenfold night,
Unless, O Bond, thy ray

Had pierc'd the shades that veil him round,
And set his sense, obscure, profound,
Amidst the blaze of day.

Now Seneca, with tragic lays,
Demands my wonder and my praise:
What thunder arms his tongue!

Now Sophocles lets loose his rage:
With what a pomp he treads the stage,
And how sublime his song!

In long and regular array,

My shelves your volumes shall display,
Ye favourites of the Nine !

No moth's, no worm's insidious rage
Shall dare to riot on your page,
Or mar one modest line.

Meanwhile, let Martial's blushless Muse
Whose wit is poison'd by the stews,
Catullus' wanton fire,

With Ovid's verse, that, as it rolls,

With luscious poison taints our souls,
In bogs obscene expire.

See, from the Caledonian shore,
With blooming laurels cover'd o'er,
Buchanan march along!

Hail, honour'd heir of David's lyre,
Thou full-grown image of thy sire!
And hail thy matchless song!

What terror sounds through all thy strings
When, in his wrath, the' Almighty flings
His thunder through the skies!
Anon, when Heaven's wide opening ray
Shines all our gloomy doubts away,
How soft the notes arise !

When billows upon billows roll,
And night o'erwhelms the tossing soul,
How potent is thy lyre

To hush the raging storm to rest,
Restore the sunshine of the breast,
And joy divine inspire!

Thou sacred bard, whene'er I rove
The smiling mead or shady grove,
Shalt entertain my way:

My humble mansion thou shalt grace,
Shalt at my table find a place,

And tune the' ecstatic lay:

When the returning shades of night
My eyes to balmy sleep invite,

Thy sweet angelic airs

Shall warble to my ear, till Sleep's

Soft influence o'er my senses creeps
And buries all my cares.

Next comes the charming Casimire;
Exulting in seraphic fire,

The bard divinely sings:

The heavenly Muse inspir'd his tongue, The heavenly Muse his viol strung,

And tun'd the' harmonious strings.

See on what full, what rapid gales,
The Polish swan triumphant sails!
He spurns the globe behind;
And, mountains lessening to the eye,
Through the unbounded fields, on high,
Expatiates unconfin'd.

Whether 'tis his divine delight
To bear, in his exalted flight,
Some hero to the skies;

Or to explore the seats above,
His kindred seats of peace and love,
His peerless pinions rise-

With what a wing! to what a height !
He towers and mocks the gazing sight,
Lost in the tracts of day!

I from afar behold his course,
Amaz'd with what a sovereign force
He mounts his arduous way!

Methinks, enkindled by the name
Of Casimire, a sudden flame

Now shoots through all my soul.

I feel, I feel the raptures rise,
On starry plumes I cut the skies,

And range from pole to pole.

Touching on Zion's sacred brow,
My wandering eyes 1 cast below,
And our vain race survey:

O, how they stretch their eager arms
To' embrace imaginary charms,
And throw their souls away!

In groveling cares and stormy strife
They waste the golden hours of life,
And murder every joy;

What is a diadem, that's tost

From hand to hand, now won, now lost,
But a delusive toy?

From all terrestrial dregs refin'd
And sensual fogs that choke the mind,
Full of the' inspiring God,

My soul shall her sublimest lay
To her Creator! Father! pay,

And sound his praise abroad.

Ye heroes, with your blood-stain❜d arms,
Avaunt! the Muse beholds no charms
In the devouring sword:

Avaunt! ye despicable train

Of gods, the phantoms of the brain,
By Greece and Rome ador'd.
Say, what is Wisdom's queen to me,
Or her fictitious panoply,

Or what the god of Wine?

I never will profane this hand
Around his tall imperial wand*

The sacred boughs to twine.

The thyrsus, mentioned by the Doctor in his ode, was a spear twined round with ivy or bay leaves, which the votaries of Bacchus carried about in their hands at his feasts.

'Tis all romance, beneath a thought,
How Hercules with lions fought

And crush'd the dragon's spires;
Alike, their thunderer I despise,
The fabled ruler of the skies,
And his pretended fires.

Thy name, Almighty Sire! and thine,
Jesus! where his full glories shine,
Shall consecrate my lays;

In numbers by no vulgar bounds control'd,
In numbers most divinely strong and bold,

I'll sound through all the world the' immeasurable praise!

But in the moment the Muse is promising great things, her vigour fails, her eyes are dazzled with the divine glories, her pinions flutter, her limbs tremble; she rushes headlong from the skies, falls to the earth, and there lies vanquished, overwhelmed in confusion and silence.

Forgive, Reverend Sir, the vain attempt, and kindly accept this poetical fragment, though rude and unpolished, as an expression of that gratitude which has been so long due to your merit.