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 safely builds his leafy bow'r,
From flavery far, and curft Iberian pow'r ;
So rapid Pindar flows. O parent of the lyre,
Let me for ever thy fweet fons admire!
O ancient Greece, but chief the bard whose lays
The matchlefs 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' incestuous king,
Whose 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,
Whose foul the form'd of purer fire,
For whom the tun'd a golden lyre,
Seeks not in fighting fields renown:
No 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 schemes, Nor all deceiv'd Ambition's feverish dreams,
Lure his contented heart from the fweet vale of ease.
By Mr. THOMAS WARTON.
OTHER of mufings, Contemplation sage,
Whofe grotto stands upon the topmost 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 shine, and through the blue ferene
Pale Cynthia rolls her filver-axled car,
Whence gazing stedfaft on the spangled vault
Raptur'd thou fit'ft, while murmurs indiftinct
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
Ascends 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 cheerless shades,
To ruin'd feats, or 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 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, adieu!
Beneath yon ruin'd abbey's mofs-grown piles
Oft let me fit, at twilight hour of eve,
Where through fome western window the pale moon Pours her long-levell'd rule of streaming light; While fullen facred filence reigns around,
Save the lone screech-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: through 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, through 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 hufh'd in filence and in fleep.
O then how fearful is it to reflect,
That through the still globe's aweful folitude,
No being wakes but me ! 'till ftealing fleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My fenfes lead through flowery paths of joy;
But let the facred Genius of the night
Such mystic visions fend, as Spenser saw,
When through 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 smiles,
As, lift'ning to the distant water-fall,
They mark the blushes of the streaky west;
I choose the pale December's foggy glooms.
Then, when the fullen fhades of ev'ning close,
Where through 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 fruitlefs toils, that ftill our fearch elude,
As through the wilderness of life we rove.
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