AN ODE. ON READING SIR CHARLES GRANDISON, IN 1758. SAY, ye apostate and profane, Wretches who blush not to disdain Did e'er your idly-wasted love Would you the race of glory run, The labours of the illustrious course To arm against repeated ill The patient heart, too brave to feel To rescue from the tyrant's sword From lawless insult to defend An orphan's right, a fallen friend, These, these distinguish from the crowd, The guardians of mankind; Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, Then ask ye, from what cause on earth Full on that favoured breast they shine, Such is that heart;-but while the Muse She cannot reach, and would not wrong, The hero, and the saint! ADDRESSED TO MISS MACARTNEY, ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE, female By bounteous Heav'n design'd The choicest raptures to impart, Dwells there a wish in such a breast Its nature to forego, To smother in ignoble rest At once both bliss and woe ! 1762. Far be the thought, and far the strain, Come then, fair maid (in nature wise) In justice to the various pow'rs "Oh! if my Sov'reign Author please, Far be it from my fate, "What tho' in scaly armour drest, Indifference may repel The shafts of woe-in such a breast No joy can ever dwell. ""Tis woven in the world's great plan, "Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves. "Let no low thought suggest the pray'r ; Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me, Long as I draw ethereal air Sweet Sensibility. "Still may my melting bosom cleave And still the sigh responsive heave, "So pity shall take Virtue's part, And fashioning my soften'd heart, This artless vow may Heav'n receive So may the rosy-finger'd hours And suns to come, as round they wheel, Your golden moments bless, With all a tender heart can feel, Or lively fancy guess. A. TABLE TALK. OU told me, I remember, glory built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt. The deeds that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel that the very lightning spares, Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust. B. I grant, that men continuing what they are, Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, The wretch to nought but his ambition true, A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man, |