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L L .
He lio'd the guardian of the laws;
Dear LIBERTY! round ALBION's ille
Who now will guard your facred cause !
Dear liberty, &c.
Where were ye, Muses, when the fatal sheers SET TO MUSICK AND PERFORMID AT DRURY
The Fury rais'd, to close his rev'rend years ? LANI, 1760.
But ah ! vain with !--you could not stop the blow!
No Omen warn'd ye of th' impending woe. The Scene discovers APOLLO and the NINE MU
See ! where BRITANNIA stands
On yonder sea-beat shore !
Behold her languid air !
To! her dishevell's hair!
Majestic now no more?
Still on the sullen wave her eye is bent,
The Trident of the Main thrown idle by; [The Mujes rear of their laurels. OLD THAMES, his fea-green thantle rent,
Inverts his urn, and heaves a doleful úgh.
Hark! to the winds and waves
Frantic with grief the raves,
And, cruel Gods ! fhe crics ; Well may you rend your golden hair ;
Each chalky cliff around, Well may you now your dirges fing,
Each rock returns the found,
And, cruel Gods ! replics.
See ! the procession fad and Now,
Walks in a solemn pomp of woe
Through awful arches, gloomy isles, Founded in justice was his sway ;
And rows of monumental piles,
Where lie the venerable just,
Where heroes moulder into duft.
Now quietly inurn'd he lies,
Pale! pale ! inanimate and cold :
Where round him baleful vapours sise, The gen'rous purpose of the noble mind,
'Midtt bones of legislators old!
Of him who fought th' ambitious Gaul
Oe'r thick-embattled plains,
Who felt, who liv'd, and reign'd for all
This only now remains.
Bring, in handfuls, lillies bring
Bring me all the flow'ry spring.
Scatter roses on his bier ;
Ever honour'd, ever dear!
CA O R V S.
Scatter Roses, deci
Oh! white-rob'd FAITH! cælestial maid !
APOLLO. No more, harmonious Progeny of Jove,
Bleft Prince ! whose subjects in each adverse hour No more let fun'ral accents rise ;
For freedom still have stood ! The great, the good AUGUSTUS reigns above,
Blest ille! whofe Prince but deems the fov'reign Translated to his kindred skics.
The pow'r of doing good!
Now open all your Helicon ; explore
Of harmony the loftieft store ;
Let the drum beat alarms, No more for my great epic rage
Such as rouze us to arms;
The trumpet's Thrill clangor shall pierce through the в отн.
Swell the rapture, swell it high ;
And in notes sublime and clear
Pour the strong melody, that Heav'n may hear. His great career of fame is run,
Nothing mortal will I found;
Lo! the flame, the flame divine !
High I mount, I quit the ground,
Holy fury! I am thine.
With rage poffelt
Big swells my breast !
In visions rapt, before my fight appears
M A R s.
I see the Rhine devolve his flood
Deep-crimson'd with the Gallic blood !
I hear, I hear the distant roar
Of ruin on yon hoftile fhore !
I see, young Prince, to thee I see
The savage Indian bend the knee !
Lo! Arric from her sable kings
Her richelt stores in tribute brings !
And farthest Ind, beneath the rising day
Lays down her arms, and venerates thy swali
I fee Bellona banish'd far!
I see him close the gates of war,
While purple rage within
With gastly ire shall grin,
And rolling his terrific eyes,
Where round him heaps of arms arise,
Bound with a hundred brazen chains,
In vain thall foam, and thirst for sanguine plains:
Sweat peace returns ;
O'er Albion's fons
She waves her dove-like wing:
On ev'ry plain Sweet MERCY! FAITH! CÆLESTIAL TRUTH !
The shepherd train
Their artless loves shall fing.
Pale DISCORD shall fly
From the light of the ky, That bid'ft eternal sunshine (mile,
He now will guard your facred ctuse.
But praise is scanty to reveal
Whilft in gam.bols round and round
They sport it o'er the thaven ground!
Though thy Syrinx, like a dream,
Flying at the face of day, Nor give to virtue, virtue's due ?
Vanish'd in the limpid stream, My grateful heart shall ever shew
Bearing all thy hopes away, The debt I need rot blush to owe.
If again thy heart should burn,
Bleft, and blessing,
CHOR U s.
[A dance of huntsmen and huntreflete For it's Thyrsis who gave them, and Thyrsis maintains.
DAMA I A s.
DAM Æ TA s.
RECITATI V E.
RECITATI V E.
eye them with a jealous fear.
A I R.
A I R.
For sure he is mad
Let the stupid be grave,
With a maiden like me,
While active fons, with eager flame,
AM Æ TA S.
Of which, to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illustration :
The fam'd Mat Prior, it is said,
Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head, Stop, shepherds, if aright I hear,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes,
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In short, he labour'd to write easy.
And yet, no critic e'er defines
His poems into labour'd lines.
I have a simile will hit him ; A view of the sea, with a vessel at a distance, His verse, like cloaths, was made to fit him, [Here follows a Pastoral Procession to the wedding Which (as no Taylor e’er denied) of Thyrfis.]
The better fit, the more they're tried.
PRI IS T.
Though I have mention’d Prior's name,
Think not I aim at Prior's fame.
Tis the result of admiration
To spend itself in imitation ;
If imitation may be said,
Which is in me by nature bred,
And you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolater of ease.
Who, but a madman, wouid engage
A Poet in the present age ?
Write what we will, our works bespeak us
Imitatores, jervum Pecus.
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,
We travel in the beaten road :
The proverb still sticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non diétum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas said an age ago,
Ere Milton foar'd in thought sublime,
Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit,
And happy in the close connexion,
The moon ftill shines with borrow'd light,
And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the fun for her lac'd cloaths.
Methinks there is no better time
To shew the use I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet-finning,
Presuming on good nature's score,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.
The first advantage which I fee,
Is, that I ramble loose and free :
The Bard indeed full oft complains,
That rhymes are fetters, links, and chaies,
And when he wants to leap the fence,
Still keep him pris’ner to the sense.
Howe'er in common place he rage,
Rhyme's like your fetters on the fiage,
Which when the player once hath wore,
It makes him only strut the more,
While, raving in pathetic strains,
He shakes his legs to clank his chains.
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