O parent of the lyre,
Let me for ever thy fweet fons 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 ufeful woes the bleeding breast;
And him, who paints th' inceftuous king, Whose foul amaze and horror wring;
Teach me to taste their charms refin'd, The richest banquet of th' enraptur'd mind: II. 3.
For the bleft man, the muse's child. On whofe aufpicious birth fhe fmil'd, Whose foul fhe form'd of purer fire, For whom she tun'd a golden lyre, Seeks not in fighting fields renown:
No widows' midnight shrieks, 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 ftatesman's schemes, Nor all deceiv'd Ambition's feverish dreams,
Lure his contented heart from the sweet vale of ease.
Written in the Year 1745.
By the Rev. Mr. THOMAS WARTON. OTHER of mufings, Contemplation fage, Whofe grotto ftands upon the topmoft rock Of Teneriff: 'mid the tempeftuous night, On which, in calmest meditation held,
Thou hear'ft with howling winds the beating rain And drifting hail defcend; or if the skies Unclouded shine, 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'ft Remote from man, converfing with the spheres! O lead me, queen fublime, to folemn glooms Congenial with my foul; to chearless shades,
To ruin'd feats, or twilight cells and bow'rs, Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to mufe, Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing fcenes 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 show'r Ambrofial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm; Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze, Adieu green vales! ye broider'd meads, adicu! 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 fome wafted tow'r. Or let me tread Its neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old The cloyster'd brother: 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 charnels let me watch the flame Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare O'er the wan heaps; while airy voices talk
Along the glimm'ring walls: or ghostly shape At distance feen, 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 motionless around! Roars not the rushing wind; the fons of men And every beast in mute oblivion lie; All nature's hush'd in filence and in sleep. O then how fearful is it to reflect,
That thro' the still globe's aweful folitude, No being wakes but me! 'till stealing fleep 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 mystic 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 fummer's ev'ning fmiles, As, lift'ning to the diftant water-fall, They mark the blushes of the streaky weft; I choose the pale December's foggy glooms. Then, when the fullen fhades of ev'ning close,
Where thro' the room a blindly-glimm'ring gleam The dying embers scatter, far remote
From Mirth's mad fhouts, that thro' th' illumin'd roof Refound with feftive echo, let me fit,
Bleft with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge. Then let my thought contemplative explore This fleeting state of things, the vain delights, The fruitless toils, that ftill our fearch elude, As thro' the wilderness of life we rove. This fober hour of filence will unmask
False Folly's fmile, that like the dazzling spells Of wily Comus cheat th' unweeting eye With blear illufion, and perfuade to drink That charmed cup, which Reason's mintage fair Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man. Eager we tafte, but in the lufcious draught Forget the pois'nous dregs that lurk beneath.
Few know that elegance of foul refin'd, Whose soft fenfation feels a quicker joy From Melancholy's fcenes, than the dull pride Of taftelefs fplendor and magnificence Can e'er afford. Thus Eloife, whose mind Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love, More genuine tranfport found, as on fome tomb Reclin'd, fhe watch'd the tapers of the dead; Or thro' the pillar'd iles, amid pale shrines. Of imag'd faints, and intermingled graves, Mus'd a veil'd votarefs: than Flavia feels,
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