Away, enervate bards, away,
Who fpin the courtly, filken lay,
+ As wreaths for fome vain Louis' head,
Or mourn fome foft Adonis dead :
No more your polish'd lyrics boast,
In British Pindar's ftrength o'erwhelm'd and loft:
As well might ye compare
The glimmerings of a waxen flame,
(Emblem of verse correctly tame)
To his own Etna's fulphur-fpouting caves,
When to heaven's vault the fiery deluge raves,
When clouds and burning rocks dart thro' the troubled air.
II. 1.
In roaring cataracts down Andes' channel'd steeps
Mark how enormous Orellana fweeps!
Monarch of mighty floods! fupremely strong,
Foaming from cliff to cliff he whirls along,
Swoln with an hundred hills' collected fnows:
Thence over nameless regions widely flows,
Round fragrant ifles, and citron-groves,
Where still the naked Indian roves,
And fafely builds his leafy bow'r,
From flavery far, and curft Iberian pow'r ;
+Alluding to the French and Italian lyric poets. See 1. Pyth. Od.
O parent of the lyre,
Let me for ever thy sweet sons admire,
O ancient Greece! but chief the bard whose lays
The matchless tale of Troy divine emblaze ;
And next Euripides, foft Pity's priest,
Who melts in useful woes the bleeding breast;
And him, who paints th' incestuous king,
Whofe foul amaze and horror wring;
Teach me to tafte their charms refin'd,
The richest banquet of th' enraptur'd mind :
II. 3.
For the bleft man, the mufe's child,*
On whofe aufpicious birth fhe fmil'd,
Whofe foul fhe form'd of purer fire,
For whom she tun'd a golden lyre,
Seeks not in fighting fields renown,
Nor widows' midnight fhrieks, nor burning town,
The peaceful poet please ;
Nor ceaseless toils for fordid gains,
Nor purple pomp, nor wide domains,
Nor heaps of wealth, nor power, nor statesman's fchemes, Nor all deceiv'd Ambition's feverish dreams,
Lure his contented heart from the fweet vale of eafe.
Written in the Year 1745.
By the Rev. Mr. THOMAS WARTON.
OTHER of mufings, Contemplation fage,
Mwhofe grotto ftands upon the topmoft rock
Of Teneriff; 'mid the tempeftuous night,
On which, in calmeft meditation held,
Thou hear'ft with howling winds the beating rain
And drifting hail defcend; or if the skies
Unclouded fhine, and thro' the blue ferene
Pale Cynthia rolls her filver-axled car,
Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault
Raptur'd thou fit'ft, while murmurs indistinct
Of diftant billows footh thy penfive ear
With hoarfe and hollow founds; fecure, felf-bleft,
There oft thou liften'ft to the wild uproar
Of fleets encount`ring, that in whispers low
Afcends the rocky fummit, where thou dwell'st
Remote from man, converfing with the spheres!
O lead me, queen fublime, to folemn glooms
Congenial with my foul; to chearless fhades,
To ruin'd feats, to twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse,
Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes
Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train
Of Smiles and Graces feem to lead the dance
In fportive round, while from their hands they fhow'r
Ambrofial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm;
Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze,
vales! ye broider'd meads, adieu!
Beneath yon' ruin'd abbey's mofs-grown piles
Oft let me fit, at twilight hour of eve,
Where thro' fome western window the pale moon
Pours her long-levell'd rule of ftreaming light;
While fullen facred filence reigns around,
Save the lone fcreech-owl's note, who builds his bow'r
Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp,
Or the calm breeze, that ruftles in the leaves
Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green
Invests some wafted tow'r. Or let me tread
Its neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old
The cloyfter'd brothers: thro' the gloomy void
That far extends beneath their ample arch
As on I pace, religious horror wraps
My foul in dread repofe. But when the world
Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe,
'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame
Of taper dim, fhedding a livid glare
O'er the wan heaps; while airy voices talk
Along the glimm'ring walls; or ghostly shape
At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand
My lonesome steps, thro' the far-winding vaults.
Nor undelightful is the folemn noon
Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch
I ftart: lo, all is motionlefs around!
Roars not the rushing wind; the fons of men
And every
beaft in mute oblivion lie;
All nature's hush'd in filence and in fleep.
O then how fearful is it to reflect,
That thro' the ftill globe's aweful folitude,
No being wakes but me! 'till ftealing sleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My fenfes lead thro' flowery paths of joy ;
But let the facred Genius of the night
Such myftic vifions fend, as Spenser saw,
When thro' bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze,
To the fell house of Bufyrane, he led
Th' unfhaken Britomart; or Milton knew,
When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd
All heav'n in tumult, and the Seraphim
Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.
Let others love foft summer's ev'ning fmiles,
As, lift'ning to the diftant water-fall,
They mark the blushes of the ftreaky weft;
I choose the pale December's foggy glooms.
Then, when the fullen fhades of ev'ning clofe,
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