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At thy command it shoots and springs,
O ye nurses of soft dreams, Reedy brooks, and winding streams, Or murm’ring o'er the pebbles sheen, Or sliding through the meadows green, Or where through matted sedge you creep, Travelling to your parent deep; Sound his praise, by whom ye rose, That sea, which neither ebbs nor flows.
O ye immortal woods and groves, Which th' enamour'd student loves; Beneath whose venerable shade, For thought and friendly converse made, Fam’d Hecadem, old hero, lies, Whose shrine is shaded from the skies,
And through the gloom of silent night
Omen, monster, prodigy, Or nothing are, or Jove from thee! Whether various nature play, Or re-invers’d thy will obey, And to rebel man declare Famine, plague, or wasteful war. Laugh, ye profane, who dare despise The threatning vengeance of the skies, Whilst the pious, on his guard, Undismay'd is still prepar’d: Life or death, his mind's at rest, Since what thou send’st must needs be best.
No evil can from thee proceed: :
Fantastic forms the air invade,
Can we forget thy guardian care, Slow to punish, prone to spare ! Thou break’st the haughty Persian's pride, That dar'd old ocean's power deride; Their shipwrecks strew'd the Eubean wave, At Marathon they found a grave. O ye blest Greeks, who there expir’d, For Greece with pious ardour fird, What shrines or altars shall we raise To secure your endless praise? Or need we monuments supply, . . To rescue what can never die !
And yet a greater hero far, (Unless great Socrates could err) Shall rise to bless some future day, And teach to live, and teach to pray. Come, Unknown Instructor, come! Our leaping hearts shall make thee room: Thou with Jove our vows shalt share; Of Jove and Thee we are the care.
O Father, King, whose heavenly face Shines serene on all thy race,
We thy magnificence adore,
THE AFRICAN SLAVES.
SHENSTONE. Why droops this heart with fancy'd woes forlorn}
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky? What pensive crowds, by ceaseless labours worn,
What myriads wish to be as bless'd as I?
What tho' my roofs devoid of pomp arise,
Nor tempt the proud to quit his destin'd way! Nor costly art my flow'ry dales disguise,
Where only simple friendship deigns to stray!
See the wild sons of Lapland's chill domain, - That scoop their couch beneath the drifted snows! How void of hope they ken the frozen plain,
Where the sharp east for ever, ever blows!
Slave tho' I be, to Delia's eyes a slave, .
My Delia's eyes endear the bands I wear; The sigh she causes well becomes the brave,
The pang she causes 'tis ev'n bliss to bear.
See the poor native quit the Lybian shores,
Ah! not in love's delightful fetters bound; No radiant smile bis dying peace restores, Nor love, nor fame, nor friendship, heals his .. wound.
Let vacant bards display their boasted woes;
Shall I the mockery of grief display?
Who bleeds and weeps his sum of life away!
On the wild beach, in mournful guise he stood,
Ere the shrill boatswain gave the hated sign; He dropp'd a tear unseen, into the flood,
He stole one secret moment to repine.
Yet the Muse listen'd to the plaints he made,
Such noving plaints as nature could inspire; To me the Muse his tender plea convey’d,
But smooth'd and suited to the sounding lyre.