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*** Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 22 Aud waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping woful wan, like one forlorn,
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, “ One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood; Along the heath and near his favourite tree.

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Th’ applause of listening senates to command, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

“ The next, with dirges due in sad array, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him

borne. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

And melancholy mark'd him for her own,
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strise,

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

He gave to misery all he had, a tear;

He gaiu'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

friend.

THE EPITAPH.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his father and his God.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture

deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their
name,
their years,

spelt by th' unletter'd
Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

A PINDARIC ODE.

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For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate :

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
“ There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Oh! sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen cares,
And frantic passions, hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia's hills the lord of war
Has curb'd the fury of his car,
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the scepter'd hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king,
With ruffled plume, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightning of his eye.

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They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-cncircled

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,

Far from the sun and summer-gale, Temper'd to thy warbled lay.

In thy green lap was nature's darling laid, O'er Idalia's velvet-green

What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, The rosy-crowned loves are seen,

To him the mighty mother did unveil On Cytherea's day,

Her awful face: The dauntless child

sca d'er o With antic sports, and blue-ey'd pleasures,

Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smild. Frisking light in frolic measures;

This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Now pursuing, now retreating,

Richly paint the vernal year: Now in circling troops they meet :

Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! To brisk notes in cadence beating,

This can unlock the gates of joy;
Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Slow melting strains their queen's approach declare: Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

Et bare
Where'er she turns, the graces homage pay.
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,

Nor second he, that rode sublime In gliding state she wins her easy way:

Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy,
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move

The secrets of th' abyss to spy.
The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
Man's feeble race what ills await,

The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,

Where angels tremble while they gaze,
Labour, and

penury,
the racks of pain,

He saw: but, blasted with excess of light,
Disease, and sorrow's weeping train,

Clos’d his eyes in endless night. And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car The fond complaint, my song, disprove,

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear And justify the laws of Jove.

Two coursers of ethereal race, Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?

With necks in thunder cloth’d, and long-resounding Night, and all her sickly dews,

pace. Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky;

Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! Till down the eastern cliffs afar

Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of Scatters from her pictur'd urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

But ah! 'tis heard no moreIn climes beyond the solar road,

Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,

Wakes thee now? though he inherit The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom,

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.

That the Theban eagle bear, And oft, beneath the odorous shade

Sailing with supreme dominion Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

Through the azure deep of air: She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run In loose numbers wildly sweet,

Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.

With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: Her track, where'er the goddess roves,

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Glory pursues, and generous shame,

Beyond the limits of a vulgar sate,
Th’unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep,

THE BARD.
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,
llow do your tuneful echocs languish

* Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Mute, but to the voice of anguishı?

Confusion on thy banners wait, Where each old poetic mountain

Though, fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,

They mock the air with idle state. Inspiration breath'd around;

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Every shade and liallow'd fountain

Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.

Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power,

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild disinay, And coward vice that revels in her chains.

As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

Ile wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Gloster stood aghast ju speechless trance :

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A PINDARIC ODE.

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goes;

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiver

In gallant trim the gilded vessel ing lance.

Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm; On a rock, whose haughty brow

Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

That hush'd in grim repose,expects his evening prey. Rob'd in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood;

Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare ;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair,
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast :
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Close by the regal chair
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

Fell thirst and famine scowl
* Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

Heard ye the din of battle bray, O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they weave, Lance to lance, and horse to horse! Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,

With many a foul and midnight murder fed, • Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

Revere bis consort's faith, his father's fame, That hush'd the stormy main;

And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

Above, below, the rose of snow, Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: Modred, whose magic song

The bristled boar in jufant gore
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:

Now, brothers, bending o'er th'accursed loom, Far, far aloof th'affrighted ravens sail :

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. The famish'd eagle screams and passes by.

“ Edward, lo! to sudden fate Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)

Half of thy heart we consecrate.
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries.

(The web is wove. The work is done.)” No more I weep. They do not sleep.

"Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit: they linger yet,

In you bright track, that fires the western skies,

They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.'

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! “ Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! The winding-sheet of Edward's race:

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. Give ample room, and verge enough,

All-hail, ye genuine kings; Britannia's issue, hail! The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night,

• Girt with many a baron bold When Severn shall re-echo with affright [ring,

Sublinie their starry fronts they rear; The shrieks of death, through Berkeley's roofs that And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old Shrieks of an agonizing king.

In bearded majesty, appear. She wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

In the midst a form divine ! That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. wait!

What strings symphonious tremble in the air, Amazement in his van,

with flight combin'd; What strains of vocal transport round her play! And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Mighty victor, mighty Lord,

Bright rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Low on his funeral couch he lies!

Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd No pitying heart, no eye afford

wings. A tear to grace his obsequies! Is the sable warrior fled ?

"The verse adorn again Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

Fierce war, and faithful love, The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. Gone to salute the rising morn.

In buskin'd measures move Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

Pale grief, and pleasing pain,

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With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Gales from blooming Eden bear;

Enough for me: with joy I see And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

The different doom our fates assign. That lost in long futurity expire.

Be thine despair, and scepter'd care; Fond impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine To triumph, and to die, are mine.' cloud,

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? Deep in the roaring tide he plung’d to endless night.

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THE ROSCIAD.
Roscius deceas’d, each high aspiring play'r
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserv'd mishaps,
And their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume,
In pompous strain fight o'er th' extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in ev'ry scar.

But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed who best can pay:
Those, who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.

What can an actor give? In ev'ry age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of ev'ry play'r,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon;
And of roast beef they only know the tune:
But what they have they give: could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home

four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love instead of meat;
Foote, at old House, for even Foote will be
In self-conceit, an actor, bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second hand receives,
And, at the New, pours water on the leaves.

The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well-chosen, or a patch misplac'd,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.

From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises--he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart.
Palmer! Oh! Palmer tops the jaunty part.
Seated in pit, the dwarf, with aching eyes,
Looks up, and vows that Barry's out of size;
Whilst to six feet the vig'rous stripling grown,
Declares that Garrick is another Coan.

When place of judgment is by whim supply'd,
And our opinions have their rise in pride;
When, in discoursing on each mimic elf,
We praise and censure with an eye to self;
All must meet friends, and Ackman bids as fair
In such a court as Garrick for the chair.

At length agreed, all squabbles to decide,
By some one judge the cause was to be try'd;
But this their squabbles did afresh renew,
Who should be judge in such a trial:- Who?

For Johnson, some, but Johnson, it was fear'd, Would be too grave; and Sterne too gay appear’d: Others for Francklin voted; but 'twas known, He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own: For Colman many, but the peevish tongue Of prudent age found out that he was young: For Murphy some few pilföring wits declar'd, Whilst folly clapp'd her hands, and wisdom star'd.

To mischief train'd, ev'n from his mother's womb, Grown old in fraud, though yet in manhood's bloom, Adopting arts by which gay villains rise, And reach the heights which honest men despise; Mute at the bar, and in the senate loud, Dull’mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud; A pert, prim prater, of the northern race, Guilt in his heart, and famine in his face, Stood forth ;--and thrice he wav'd his lily hand And thrice he twirl'd his eye-thrice strok'd his

band. “At friendship's call (thus oft with trait’rous aim, Men void of faith usurp faith's sacred name) At friendship’s call I come, by Murphy sent, Who thus by me developes his intent. But lest, transfus'd, the spirit should be lost, That spirit which in storms of rhet'ric tost, Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer, In his own words his own intentions hear.

“Thanks to my friends.-But to vile fortunes born, No robes of fur these shoulders must adorn, Vain your applause, no aid from thence I draw, Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law? Twice (curs'd remembrance)! twice I strove to gain Admittance 'mongst the law-instructed train, Who in the Temple and Gray's-inn prepare For clients wretched feet the legal snare: Dead to those arts which polish and refine, Deaf to all worth, because that worth was mine, Twice did those blockheads startle at my name, And foul rejection gave me up to shame. To laws and lawyers then I bid adieu, And plans of far more lib'ral note pursue. Who will may be a judge my kindling breast Burns for that chair wbich Roscius once possessid,

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