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Else vain the studied sounds of mimic art,
Thou bear'st aloof, and look’st with high dis
Upon the dull mechanic train; (dain, Whose nervous strains flag on in languid tone, Lifeless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowsy drone.
No longer now thy altars blaze,
Which erst full wantonly have stray'd
For when the oak denies her stay,
No more she twists her branches round,
Since only those the laurel claim,
And boast them of the poet's name, Whose sober rhymes in even tenor flow;
Who prey on words, and all their flowerets cull, Coldly correct, and regularly dull.
* By taste, is here meant the modern affectation of it,
Why sleep the sons of Genius now?
Why, Wartons, rests the lyre unstrung ? | And thou,* bless'd bard! around whose sacred
brow Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung,
Arise, and snatch the majesty of song From Dulness servile tribe, and Art's unhallow'd throng.
TO MEMORY, 1748. O MEMORY! celestial maid !
Who glean'st the flowerets cropp'd by Time, Aud, suffering not a leaf to fade,
Presery`st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new and Lesbia kind.
And bring that garland to my sight
With which my favour'd crook she bound;
Which then my festive temples crown'd;
Where Isis rolls her silver tide,
That shines on Cherwell's verdant side, If so thou may'st those hours prolong, When polish'a Lycon join'd my song.
* Dr. Akenside.
The song it 'vails not to recite
But, sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright
Than other banks, than other streamns ; Or, by thy softening pencil shown, Assume they beauties not their own? And paint that sweetly-vacant scene
When, all beneath the poplar bough, Ny spirits light, my soul serene,
Í breath'd in verse one cordial vow, That nothing should my soul inspire But friendship warm and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight,
On thee the drooping Muse attends,
On thy expressive power depends,
Which at Ambition's shrine I made ;
Those anxious moments, ill repaid : Oh! from my breast that season rase, And bring my childhood in its place. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode, When, pleas'd, in many a sportive ring
Around the room I jovial rode; Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu, And bring the whistle that I blew.
Then will I muse, and pensive say,
• Why did not these enjoyments last ? How sweetly wasted I the day,
While innocence allow'd to waste !
Q Thou, who glad'st the pensive soul,
The sable bands combin'd,
Lo, startled at the heavenly ray,
robes glittering to the morn,