At thy command it shoots and springs, Wisdom, and bounty to mankind. Spring, and smile, and flourish there. 0 ye nurses of soft dreams, Reedy brooks, and winding streams, Or murm'ring o'er the pebbles sheen, 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, Famine, plague, or wasteful war. 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: "Tis only suffer'd, not decreed; From Erebus, and fill the skies; Fantastic forms the air invade, Can we forget thy guardian care, Thou break'st the haughty Persian's pride, O ye blest Greeks, who there expir'd, 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, ELEGY ON 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, 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; See the poor native quit the Lybian shores, Let vacant bards display their boasted woes; On the wild beach, in mournful guise he stood, Yet the Muse listen'd to the plaints he made, Such moving plaints as nature could inspire; To me the Muse his tender plea convey'd, But smooth'd and suited to the sounding lyre. |