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His House, embosom'd in the Grove,

Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green;

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene: Thither, the filver-founding lyres

Shall call the smiling Loves, and young Defires; There, ev'ry Grace and Muse shall throng,

Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There Youths and Nymphs, in confort gay,

Shall hail the rifing, clofe the parting day. With me, alas ! those joys are o'er ;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The ftill-believing, ftill-renew'd defire'; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind Deceivers of the soul! But why? ah telf me, an too dear!

Steals down my cheek th'involuntary Tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,

Stop, or turn nonsense, ať one glance of thee? Thee, dreft in Fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow throʻ th'extended Dream ; Now, now I feize, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my arms"; And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or softly glide by the Canal,
Now shown by Cynthia's filver ray,
And now, on rolling waters snatch'd away.





E forte credas interitura, quae

Longe sonantem natus ad Aufidum Non ante vulgatas per artes

Verba loquor socianda chordis;

Non, si priores Maeonius tenet
Sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent
Ceaeque, et Alcaei minaces

Stefichorique graves Camenac :

Nec, fi quid olim lusit Anacreon,
Delevit aetas : fpirat adhuc amor,
Vivuntque commiffi calores

Aeoliae fidibus puellae.

Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; sed omnes illacrymabiles
Urguentur ignotique longa

Nocte, carent quia vate facro.

Part of the NINTH ODE


EST you should think that verse shall die,

Which sounds the Silver Thames along, Taught, on the wings of Truth to fly

Above the reach of vulgar fong;


Tho' daring Milton fits sublime,

In Spencer native Muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,

Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay

Sages and Chicfs long since had birth

Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd; These rais'd new Empires o'er the Earth,

And Those, new Heav'ns and Systems fram'd.

Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's pride!

They had no Poet, and they died.
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!

They had no Poet, and are dead.

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