Where envy's noxious snakes entwine
Her temples round, in gorgon mood,
And bellowing faction rolls supine
Along the flame-becurled flood!-
Hence, then, to that accursed place,
Disturbers of the human race!
And with you bear ambition wild, and selfish pride,
With persecution foul, and terror by her side.
Thus driven from earth war's horrid train-
O Peace, thou nymph divine, draw near!
Here let the muses fix their reign,
And crown with fame each rolling year.
Source of joy and genuine pleasure,
Queen of quiet, queen of leisure,
Haste thy votaries to cheer!
Cherish'd beneath thy hallow'd rule,
Shall Pennsylvania's glory rise;
Her sons, bred up in Virtue's school,
Shall lift her honors to the skies-
A state thrice blest with lenient sway,
Where liberty exalts the mind;
Where plenty basks the live long day,
And pours her treasures unconfined.
Hither, ye beauteous virgins tend,
With Arts and Science by your side,
Whose skill the untutor'd morals mend,
And to fair honor mankind guide;
And with you bring the graces three,
To fill the soul with glory's blaze;
Whose charms give charms to poesy,
And consecrate the immortal lays-
Such as, when mighty Pindar sung,
Through the Alphean village rung;
Or such as, Meles, by thy lucid fountains flow'd,
When bold Mæonides with heavenly transports glow'd.
To such, may Delaware, majestic flood,
Lend, from his flowery banks, a ravish'd ear;
Such note as may delight the wise and good,
Or saints celestial may endure to hear!
For if the muse can aught of time descry,
Such notes shall sound thy crystal waves along,
Thy cities fair with glorious Athens vie,
Nor pure Ilissus boast a nobler song.
On thy fair banks, a fane to Virtue's name
Shall rise and justice light her holy flame.
All hail then, Peace! restore the golden days,
And round the ball diffuse Britannia's praise;
Stretch her wide empire to the world's last end,
Till kings remotest to her sceptre bend !
ODE TO MY INGENIOUS FRIEND, MR THOMAS GODFREY.
WHILE you, dear Tom, are forced to roam,
In search of fortune, far from home,
O'er bogs, o'er seas and mountains;
I too, debarr'd the soft retreat
Of shady groves, and murmur sweet
Of silver prattling fountains,
Must mingle with the bustling throng,
And bear my load of cares along,
Like any other sinner:
For, where's the ecstasy in this,
To loiter in poetic bliss,
And go without a dinner?
Flaccus, we know, immortal bard!
With mighty kings and statesmen fared,
And lived in cheerful plenty:
But now, in these degenerate days,
The slight reward of empty praise,
Scarce one receives in twenty.
Well might the Roman swan, along
The pleasing Tiber pour his song,
When bless'd with ease and quiet;
Oft did he grace Mæcenas' board,
Who would for him throw by the lord,
And in Falernian riot.
But, dearest Tom! these days are past,
And we are in a climate cast
Where few the muse can relish ;
Where all the doctrine now that's told,
Is that a shining heap of gold
Alone can man embellish.
Then since 't is thus, my honest friend,
If you be wise, my strain attend,
And counsel sage adhere to;
With me, henceforward, join the crowd,
And like the rest proclaim aloud,
That money is all virtue !
Then may we both, in time, retreat
To some fair villa, sweetly neat,
To entertain the muses;
And then life's noise and trouble leave-
Supremely blest, we'll never grieve
At what the world refuses.
Now had the beam of Titan gay
Usher'd in the blissful May,
Scattering from his pearly bed,
Fresh dew on every mountain's head;
Nature mild and debonair,
To thee, fair maid, yields up her care.
May, with gentle plastic hand,
Clothes in flowery robe the land;
O'er the vales the cowslips spreads,
And eglantine beneath the shades;
Violets blue befringe each fountain,
Woodbines lace each steepy mountain;
Hyacinths their sweets diffuse,
And the rose its blush renews;
With the rest of Flora's train,
Decking lowly dale or plain.
Through creation's range, sweet May!
Nature's children own thy sway—
Whether in the crystal flood,
Amorous, sport the finny brood;
Or the feather'd tribes declare,
That they breathe thy genial air,
While they warble in each grove
Sweetest notes of artless love;
Or their wound the beasts proclaim,
Smitten with a fiercer flame;
Or the passions higher rise,
Sparing none beneath the skies,
But swaying soft the human mind
With feelings of ecstatic kind—
10*
Through wide creation's range, sweet May!
All nature's children own thy sway.
Oft will I, (e'er Phosphor's light
Quits the glimmering skirts of night)
Meet thee in the clover field,
Where thy beauties thou shalt yield
To my fancy, quick and warm,
Listening to the dawn's alarm,
Sounded loud by Chanticleer,
In peals that sharply pierce the ear.
And, as Sol his flaming car
Urges up the vaulted air,
Shunning quick the scorching ray,
I will to some covert stray,
Coolly bowers or latent dells,
Where light-footed silence dwells,
And whispers to my heaven-born dream,
Fair Schuylkill, by thy winding stream!
There I'll devote full many an hour,
To the still-finger'd Morphean power,
And entertain my thirsty soul
With draughts from Fancy's fairy bowl;
Or mount her orb of varied hue,
And scenes of heaven and earth review.
Nor in milder eve's decline,
As the sun forgets to shine,
And sloping down the ethereal plain,
Plunges in the western main,
Will I forbear due strain to pay
To the song-inspiring May;
But as Hesper 'gins to move
Round the radiant court of Jove,
(Leading through the azure sky
All the starry progeny,
Emitting prone their silver light,
To re-illume the shades of night)
Then, the dewy lawn along,
I'll carol forth my grateful song,
Viewing with transported eye
The blazing orbs that roll on high,
Beaming lustre, bright and clear,
O'er the glowing hemisphere.
Thus from the early blushing morn,
Till the dappled eve's return,
Will I, in free unlabor'd lay,
Sweetly sing the charming May!
VERSES FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1762.
STILL as emerges from the womb of time,
Each circling year, you claim our humble rhyme;
But where's the muse, whose fiery numbers best
Shall rouse heroic ardor in each breast?
To wing the flight where conquest leads the way,
Transcends our song, and mocks the feeble lay.
Such themes sublime best suit a rapturous lyre,
And bards transported with poetic fire-
Yet when inspired with Britain's glorious fame,
What bosom glows not with the hallow'd flame?
When angry Gallia pour'd her hostile train,
Intent on plunder, o'er th' Atlantic main;
Strangers to arms, we knew no murderous art,
Nor crimson falchion, nor the poisonous dart,
From earliest youth, instructed to abhor
The deadly engines of destructive war;
The cannon's sound, as dire assail'd our ears,
As Jove's red thunder, when he shakes the spheres.
Yet to our aid when mighty Brunswick came,
It kindled in each breast the martial flame;
Undaunted as our warlike troops advance,
To walls, inglorious, shrink the sons of France;
Their cities storm'd, their chiefs in fetters bound,
And their proud ramparts levell'd with the ground.
O'er this new world, thus have Britannia's arms
Restored lost peace, and exiled war's alarms;
Again rich commerce crowns the merchant's toil,
And smiling Ceres paints the pregnant soil.
Thus the good shepherd, when he views from far
The deadly wolves beset his fleecy care,
Quick to their help his guardian crook he wields,
And soon the prowling throng is scatter'd o'er the fields. Yet not to us is Britain's care confined,
Her fame is wafted to remotest Ind;
By justice call'd, her chiefs, with matchless swords,
Have humbled mighty Asia's proudest lords;
Far distant scenes her martial deeds proclaim,
And Pondicherry bows to Britain's name.
See the sad chance of all destructive warSee Lally captived at the victor's car;
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