How Adalation drops her courtly dew

On titled rhimers and inglorious kings ! See from the depths of his exhaustless mine,

His glittring stores the tuneful spendthrift throws: Where fear or int'reft bids, beholds they thine ;

Now grace a Cromwell's now a Charles's brows. Born with too gen'rous or too mean a heart,

Dryden! in vain to thee those stores were lent; Thy sweetest numbers but a trifling art;

Thy stronge& di&tion idly eloquent. The simplest lyre, if Truth directs its lays,

Warbles a melody ne'er heard from thine : Not to disgust with faile and venal praise,

Was Paruells modelt fame, and may be mine. Go then, my friend, nor let thy candid breaft

Condemn me, if I check the plaufive string: Go to the wayward world; complete the rest;

Be what the purest Mufe would with to fing. Be itill thyfelf: that open path of truth,

Which led thee here, let manhood firm pursue;
Retain the sweet fimplicity of youth ;

And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.
Still fcorn, with conscious pride, the mask of art;

On Vice's front let fearful caution low'r;
And teach the diffident, discreeter part

Of knaves that plot, and tools that fawn for pow's. So, round thy brow when Age's honours spread,

When Death's cold hand untirings thy Mason's lyre, When the green turf lies lightly on his head,

Ihy vortú fali lome superior bard inspire ;

He to the amplet bounds of Time's domain

On Rapture's plume shall give thy name to fly ; For trust, with rev'rence trust, this Sabine strain,

“ The Muse forbids the virtuous man to die."

ODE,
TO A FRIEND.

1.

Ah! cease this kind perfuafive ftrain,
Which, when it flows from Friendship's tongue,
However weak, however vain,
O’erpow'rs beyond the Siren's song:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me mure upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats
Why rob me of these pensive tweets?
Can Music's voice, can beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand supply
A charm fo fuited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill,

Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill,
While thro' the west, where finks the crimfon day,
Meek Twilight Nowly fails, and waves her banners gray!

13.

Say, from Amiction's various source
Do none but turbid waters flow ?
And cannot Fancy clear their course?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.

Say, mid that grove, in love-lorn state,
While yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all that meets the nepherd's ear,
Inspir’d by anguish and despair ?
Ah, no! fair Fancy rules the song :
She swells her throat; the guides her tongue ;
She bids the waving aspin spray
Quiver in cadence to her lay ;
She bids the fringed osiers bow,

And rustle round the lake below,
To suit the tenor of her gurgling fighs,
And foothe her throbbing breast with fulemn fympathies,

III.

To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares ;
Whole cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears;
To thee yon abbey, dank and lone,
Where ivy chains each mouldering stone
That nods o'er many a martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.
Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander through the cloifiers drear,
Could rove each desolated aile,
Though midnight thunders shook the pile;
And dauntless view, or secm to view,

(As faintly flat the light’nings blue,) Thin Thiv'ring ghosts from yawning charnels thrung, And glance with filent sweep the lhaggy vaults aluus

IV.
But such terriâc charms as these,
I ask got yet; my sober mind

The fainter forms of sadness please;
My forrows are of softer kind.
Through this ftill valley let me stray,
Rapt in some ftrain of pensive GRAY:
Whole lofty genius bears along
Tbe conscious dignity of fong;
And scorning from the sacred ftore
To waste a note on Pride or l'ower,
Roves through the glinimering twilight gloom,
And warbles round each ruftic tonib:
He too, perchance (for well I know,

His heart can melt with friendly woe),
He too, perchance, when these poor limbs are laid,
Will heave one tuneful ügh, and soothe my hovering

fhade.

BEATTIE.

RETIREMENT,

AN ODE.
WHEN in the crimson cloud of even,

The ling'ring light decays,
Amd Hefper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays ;
Deep in the filent vale, unseen,

Ielide a lulling stream,
A pensive youth of placid mien,

Indulged his tender theine.
Le cliffs, in hoary grandeur pild,
High o'er the glimmering dale;

Ye woods, along whose winding wild

Murmurs the folemn gale;
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,

And Woe retires to weep,
What time the wan moon's yellow horn

Gleams on the western deep :
To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
'Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequefter'd bow'r

Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modeft pow'r !

Leans on her ivy'd shrine.
How shall I woo thee, matchless fair!

Thy heavenly finile how win;
Thy smile, that smooths the brow of Care,

And fills the storm within ? O wilt thou to thy fav’rite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move

Serene, on flent wing!
Oft let remembrance foothe his mind

With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclin'd

He fram'd his infant days;
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care,

Nor cold Diftruft alarm'd,
Nor Envy, with malignant glare,

His fimple youth bad harin'd. *Twas then, O Solitude, to thice

His early vows were paid,