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AKENSIDE'S POEMS.

O'er mighty names and giant-powers of lust,
The Great, the Sage, the Happy, and August 3.
No gleam of hope their baleful mansion cheers,
No sound of honour hails their unblest ears;
But dire reproaches from the friend betray'd,
The childless sire and violated maid;
But vengeful vows for guardian laws effac'd,
From towns enslav'd and continents laid waste;
But long Posterity's united groan,

And the sad charge of horrours not their own,
For ever through the trembling space resound,
And sink each impious forehead to the ground.
Ye mighty foes of Liberty and Rest,
Give way, do homage to a mightier guest!
Ye daring spirits of the Roman race,
See Curio's toil your proudest claims efface!
-Aw'd at the name, fierce Appius 4 rising bends,
And hardy Cinna from his throne attends:
"He comes," they cry, "to whom the Fates assign'd
With surer arts to work what we design'd,
From year to year the stubborn herd to sway,
Mouth all their wrongs, and all their rage obey;
Till, own'd their guide, and trusted with their power,
He mock'd their hopes in one decisive hour:
Then, tir'd and yielding, led them to the chain,
And quench'd the spirit we provok'd in vain."

But thou, Supreme, by whose eternal hands
Fair Liberty's heroic empire stands ;
Whose thunders the rebellious deep control,
And quell the triumphs of the traitor's soul,
O turn this dreadful omen far away:
On Freedom's foes their own attempts repay;
Relume her sacred fire so near supprest,
And fix her shrine in every Roman breast:
Though bold Corruption boast around the land,
"Let Virtue, if she can, my baits withstand!"
Though bolder now she urge the accursed claim,
Gay with her trophies rais'd on Curio's shame;
Yet some there are who scorn her impious mirth,
Who know what conscience and a heart are worth.
-O friend and father of the human mind,
Whose art for noblest ends our frame design'd!
If I, though fated to the studious shade
Which party-strife nor anxious power invade,
If I aspire in Public Virtue's cause,
To guide the Muses by sublimer laws,
Do thou her own authority impart,
And give my numbers entrance to the heart.
Perhaps the verse might rouse her smother'd flame,
And snatch the fainting patriot back to fame;
Perhaps, by worthy thoughts of human kind,
To worthy deeds exalt the conscious mind;
Or dash Corruption in her proud career,
And teach her slaves that Vice was born to fear.

LOVE. AN ELEGY.

My wishes, lull'd with soft inglorious dreams,
Forgot the patriot's and the sage's themes:
Through each Elysian vale and fairy grove,
Through all the enchanted Paradise of Love.
Misled by sickly Hope's deceitful flame,
Averse to action, and renouncing fame.

At last the visionary scenes decay,

My eyes, exulting, bless the new-born day,
Whose faithful beams detect the dangerous road
In which my heedless feet securely trod,

And strip the phantoms of their lying charms
That lur'd my soul from Wisdom's peaceful arms.
For silver streams and banks bespread with flowers,
For mossy couches and harmonious bowers,
Lo! barren heaths appear, and pathless woods,
And rocks hung dreadful o'er unfathom'd foods:
For openness of heart, for tender smiles,

Looks fraught with love, and wrath disarming wiles,
Lo! sullen Spite, and perjur'd Lust of Gain,
And cruel Pride, and crueler Disdain.
Lo! cordial Faith to idiot airs refin'd,
Now coolly civil, now transporting kind.
For graceful Ease, lo! Affectation walks;

And dull Half-sense, for Wit and Wisdom talks.
New to each hour what low delight succeeds,
What precious furniture of hearts and heads!
By nought their prudence, but by getting, known;
And all their courage in deceiving shown.

See next what plagues attend the lover's state,
What frightful forms of Terrour, Scorn, and Hate!
See burning Fury, Heaven and Earth defy !
See dumb Despair in icy fetters lie!

See black Suspicion bend his gloomy brow,
The hideous image of himself to view!
And fond Belief, with all a lover's flame,

Sinks in those arms that points his head with shame!
There wan Dejection, faultering as he goes,
In shades and silence vainly seeks repose;
Musing through pathless wilds, consumes the day,
Then lost in darkness weeps the hours away.
Here the gay crowd of Luxury advance,
Some touch the lyre, and others urge the dance;
On every head the rosy garland glows,
In every hand the golden goblet flows.
The Syren views them with exulting eyes,
And laughs at bashful Virtue as she flies.
But see behind, where Scorn and Want appear,
The grave remonstrance and the witty sneer.
See fell Remorse in action, prompt to dart
Her snaky poison through the conscious heart.
And Sloth to cancel, with oblivious shame,
The fair memorial of recording Fame.

Are these delights that one would wish to gain?
Is this the Elysiumn of a sober brain:
To wait for happiness in female smiles,
Bear all her scorn, be caught with all her wiles,
With prayers, with bribes, with lies, her pity crave,
Bless her hard bonds, and boast to be her slave;
To feel, for trifles, a distracting train

Too much my heart of Beauty's power hath known,Of hopes and terrours equally in vain;

Too long to Love hath Reason left her throne;
Too long my genius mourn'd his myrtle chain,
And three rich years of youth consum'd in vain.

3 Titles which have been generally ascribed to
Akenside.
the most pernicious of men.

4 Appius Claudius the decemvir, and L. Cornelius
Ginna, both attempted to establish a tyrannical
dominion in Rome, and both perish'd by the trea-
son. Akenside.

This hour to tremble, and the next to glow,
Can pride, can sense, can reason, stoop so low?
When Virtue, at an easier price, displays
The sacred wreaths of honourable praise;
When Wisdom utters her divine decree,
To laugh at pompous Folly, and be free.

I bid adieu, then, to these woful scenes;
I bid adieu to all the sex of queens;
Adieu to every suffering, simple soul,
That lets a woman's will his ease control.

There laugh, ye witty; and rebuke, ye grave!
For me, I scorn to boast that I'm a slave.
I bid the whining brotherhood be gone,
Joy to my heart! my wishes are my own!
Farewell the female Heaven, the female Hell;
To the great God of Love a glad farewell.
Is this the triumph of thy awful name?
Are these the splendid hopes that urg'd thy aim,
When first my bosom own'd thy haughty sway?
When thus Minerva heard thee, boasting, say,
"Go, martial maid, elsewhere thy arts employ,
Nor hope to shelter that devoted boy.

Go teach the solemn sons of Care and Age,
The pensive statesmen, and the midnight sage;
The young with me must other lessons prove,
Youth calls for Pleasure, Pleasure calls for Love.
Behold his heart thy grave advice disdains,
Behold I bind him in eternal chains."

Alas! great Love, how idle was the boast!
Thy chains are broken, and thy lessons lost;
Thy wilful rage has tir'd my suffering heart,
And passion, reason, forc'd thee to depart.

But wherefore dost thou linger on thy way? Why vainly search for some pretence to stay, When crowds of vassals court thy pleasing yoke, And countless victims bow them to the stroke? Lo! round thy shrine a thousand youths advance, Warm with the gentle ardours of romance; Each longs to assert thy cause with feats of arms, And make the world confess Dulcinea's charms. Ten thousand girls, with flowery chaplets crown'd, To groves and streams thy tender triumph sound; Each bids the stream in murmurs speak her flame, Each calls the grove to sigh her shepherd's name. But, if thy pride such easy honour scorn, If nobler trophies must thy toil adorn, Behold yon flowery antiquated maid Bright in the bloom of threescore years display'd; Her shalt thou bind in thy delightful chains, And thrill with gentle pangs her wither'd veins, Hor frosty cheek with crimson blushes dye, With dreams of rapture melt her maudlin eye. Turn then thy labours to the servile crowd, Entice the wary, and control the proud; Make the sad miser his best gains forego, The solemn statesman sigh to be a beau; The bold coquette with fondest passion burn, The bacchanalian o'er his bottle mourn: And that chief glory of thy power maintain, "To poise ambition in a female brain." Be these thy triumphs. But no more presume That my rebellious heart will yield thee room. I know thy puny force, thy simple wiles; I break triumphant through thy flimsy toils: I see thy dying lamp's last languid glow, Thy arrows blunted, and unbrac'd thy bow. I feel diviner fires my breast inflame, To active science, and ingenuous fame: lesume the paths my earliest choice began, And lose, with pride, the lover in the man.

A BRITISH PHILIPPIC: OCCASIONED BY THE INSULTS OF THE SPANIARDS, AND THE PRESENT PREPARATIONS FOR WAR. M.DCC.XXXVIII.

HENCE this unwonted transport in my breast? Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the Muse

Aspire with rapid wing? Her country's cause
Demands her efforts; at that sacred call
She summons all her ardour, throws aside
The trembling lyre, and with the warrior's trump
She means to thunder in each British ear;
And if one spark of honour or of fame,
Disdain of insult, dread of infamy,
One thought of public virtae yet survive,
She means to wake it, rouse the generous flame,
With patriot zeal inspirit every breast,
And fire each British heart with British wrongs,
Alas, the vain attempt! what influence now
Can the Muse boast? or what attention now
Is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now
The British spirit, generous, warm, and brave,
So frequent wont from tyranny and woe
To free the suppliant nations? Where, indeed!
If that protection, once to strangers given,
Be now withheld from sons? Each nobler thought,
That warm'd our sires, is lost and buried now
In luxury and avarice. Baneful vice!
How it unmans a nation! Yet I'll try,
I'll aim to shake this vile degenerate sloth;
I'll dare to rouze Britannia's dreaming sous
To fame, to virtue, and impart around
A generous feeling of compatriot woes.

Come then the various powers of forceful speech,
All that can move, awaken, fire, transport;
Come the bold ardour of the Theban bard!
The arouzing thunder of the patriot Greek!
The soft persuasion of the Roman sage!
Come all! and raise me to an equal height,
A rapture worthy of my glorious cause!
Lest my best efforts failing should debase
The sacred theme; for with no common wing
The Muse attempts to soar. Yet what need these?
My country's fame, my free-born British heart,
Shall be my best inspirers, raise my flight
High as the Theban's pinion, and with more
Than Greek or Roman flame exalt my soul.
Oh! could I give the vast ideas birth
Expressive of the thoughts that flame within,
No more should lazy Luxury detain
Our ardent youth; no more should Britain's sons
Sit tamely passive by, and careless hear
The prayers, sighs, groans (immortal infamy!)
Of fellow Britons, with oppression sunk,
In bitterness of soul demanding aid,
Calling on Britain, their dear native land,
The land of Liberty; so greatly fam'd
For just redress: the land so often dyed
With her best blood, for that arouzing cause,
The freedom of her sons; those sons that now,
Far from the manly blessings of her sway,
Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord.
And dare they, dare the vanquish'd sons of Spain,
Enslave a Briton? Have they then forgot,
So soon forgot, the great, the immortal day,
When rescued Sicily with joy beheld
The swift-wing'd thunder of the British arm
Disperse their navies? when their coward bands
Fled, like the raven from the bird of Jove,
From swift impending vengeance fled in vain :
Are these our lords? And can Britannia see
Her foes oft vanquish'd, thus defy her power,
Insult her standard, and enslave her sons,
And not arise to justice? Did our sires,
Unaw'd by chains, by exile, or by death,
Preserve inviolate her guardian rights,
To Britons ever sacred! that their sons

Might give them up to Spaniards?-Turn your | His urn encircle, to the wondering world

eyes,

Turn ye degenerate, who with haughty boast
Call yourselves Britons, to that dismal gloom,
That dungeon dark and deep, where never thought
Of joy or peace can enter; see the gates
Harsh-creaking open; what an hideous void,
Dark as the yawning grave! while still as death
A frightful silence reigns: there on the ground
Behold your brethren chain'd like beasts of prey:
There mark your numerous glories, there behold
The look that speaks unutterable woe;

The mangled limb, the faint, the deathful eye
With famine sunk, the deep heart-bursting groan
Suppress'd in silence; view the loathsome food,
Refus'd by dogs, and oh! the stinging thought!
View the dark Spaniard glorying in their wrongs,
The deadly priest triumphant in their woes,
And thundering worse damnation on their souls:
While that pale form, in all the pangs of death,
Too faint to speak, yet eloquent of all
His native British spirit yet untam'd,
Raises his head, and with indignant frowns
Of great defiance, and superior scorn,
Looks up and dies.--Oh! I am all on fire!
But let me spare the theme, lest future times
Should blush to hear that either conquer'd Spain
Durst offer Britain such outrageous wrong,
Or Britain tamely bore it-

Descend, ye guardian heroes of the land!
Scourges of Spain, descend! Behold your sons,
See how they run the same heroic race,

How prompt, how ardent in their country's cause,
How greatly proud to assert their British blood,
And in their deeds reflect their fathers' fame!
Ah! would to Heaven! ye did not rather see
How dead to virtue in the public cause!
How cold, how careless, how to glory deaf,
They shame your laurels, and beli- their birth!
Come, ye great spirits, Ca'ndish, Raleigh, Blake!
of later name your country's pride,
And ye
Oh! come, disperse these lazy fumes of sloth,
Teach British hearts with British fires to glow!
In wakening whispers rouze our ardent youth,
Blazon the triumphs of your better days,
Paint all the glorious scenes of rightful war,
In all its splendours; to their swelling souls
Say how ye bow'd the insulting Spaniards pride,
Say how ye thunder'd o'er their prostrate heads,
Say how ye broke their lines and fir'd their ports,
Say how not death, in all its frightful shapes,
Could damp your souls, or shake the great resolve
For Right and Britain: then display the joys
The patriot's soul exalting, while he views
Transported millions hail with loud acclaim
The guardian of their civil, sacred rights.
How greatly welcome to the virtuous man
Is death for others good! the radiant thoughts
That beam celestial on his passing soul,
The unfading crowns awaiting him above,
The exalting plaudit of the Great Supreme,
Who in his actions with complacence views
His own reflected splendour: then descend,
Though to a lower, yet a nobler scene;
Paint the just honours to his relics paid,
Show grateful millions weeping o'er his grave;
While his fair fame in each progressive age
For ever brightens; and the wise and good
Of every land in universal choir

With richest, incense of undying praise

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His numerous triumphs blazon; while with awe,
With filial reverence, in his steps they tread,
And, copying every virtue, every fame,
Transplant his glories into second life,
And, with unsparing hand, make nations blest
By his example. Vast immense rewards!
For all the turmoils which the virtuous mind
Encounters here. Yet, Britons, are ye cold?
Yet deaf to glory, virtue, and the call
Of your poor injur'd countrymen? Ah! no.
I see ye are not; every bosom glows
With native greatness, and in all its state
The British spirit rises. Glorious change!
Fame, Virtue, Freedom, welcome! Oh! forgive
The Muse, that ardent in her sacred cause
Your glory question'd: she beholds with joy;
She owns, she triumphs in her wish'd mistake.

See! from her sea-beat throne in awful march
Britannia towers: upon her laurel crest
The plumes majestic nod; behold she heaves
Her guardian shields, and terrible in arms
For battle shakes her adamantine spear:
Loud at her foot the British lion roars,
Frighting the nations; haughty Spain full soon
Shall hear and tremble. Go then, Britons, forth,
Your country's daring champions: tell your foes
Tell them in thunders o'er their prostrate land,
You were not born for slaves: let all your deeds
Show that the sons of those immortal men,
The stars of shining story, are not slow
In virtue's path to emulate their sires,
To assert their country's rights, avenge her sens,
And hurl the bolts of justice on her foes.

HYMN TO SCIENCE.

O vitæ Philosophia dux! O virtutis indagatri expultrixque vitiorum.-Tu urbes peperisti; inventrix legum, tu magistra morum et disc plinæ fuisti: Ad te confugimus, a te opem p timus. Cic. Tusc. Quæst.

SCIENCE! thou fair effusive ray
From the great source of mental day,
Free, generous, and refin'd!
Descend with all thy treasures fraught,
Illumine each bewilder'd thought,

And bless my labouring mind.
But first with thy resistless light,
Disperse those phantoms from my sight,
Those mimic shades of thee;
The scholiast's learning, sophist's cant,
The visionary bigot's rant,

The monk's philosophy.

O! let thy powerful charms impart
The patient head, the candid heart,
Devoted to thy sway;

Which no weak passions e'er mislead,
Which still with dauntless steps proceed
Where reason points the way.

Give me to learn each secret cause;
Let number's, figure's, motion's laws
Reveal'd before me stand;

These to great Nature's scenes apply,
And round the globe, and through the sky,
Disclose her working hand,

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