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No cloud thine eyes of candour know
To fhade their fweet expreffion o'er ;
But to the foft fuffufing glow
They kindle quick, and fparkle more.
Ah! may fuch glances ever speak
The fimple blush on Charlotte's cheek!
ODE on His MAJESTY's BIRTHDAY.
Written by MR. Warton.
HE nobleft bards of Albion's choir
Have ftruck of old this festal lyre.
Ere science struggling oft in vain,
Had dar'd to break her Gothic chain,
Victorious Edward gave the vernal bough
Of Britain's bay to bloom on Chaucer's brow:
Fir'd with the gift, he chang'd to founds fublime
His Norman minftrelfy's difcordant chime;
In tones majestic hence He told
The banquet of Cambufcan bold;
And oft he fung (howe'er the rhyme
Has moulder'd to the touch of time)
His martial master's knightly board,
And Arthur's ancient rites restor'd;
The prince in fable steel that iternly frown'd,
And Gallia's captive king, and Creffy's wreath renown'd.
Won from the shepherd's fimple meed,
The whispers wild of Mulla's reed,
Sage Spenfer wak'd his lofty lay
To grace Eliza's golden fway:
O'er the proud theme new luftre to diffufe,
He chofe the gorgeous allegoric niufe,
And call'd to life old Uther's elfin tale,
And rov'd thro' many a necromantic vale,
Pourtraying chiefs that knew to tame
The goblin's ire, the dragon's flame,
To pierce the dark enchanted hall,
Where virtue fat in lonely thrall.
From fabling Fancy's inmoft store
A rich romantic robe he bore;
A veil with vifionary trappings hung,
And o'er his virgin-queen the fairy texture flung.
At length the matchlefs Dryden came,
To light the mufe's clearer flame;
To lofty numbers grace to lend,
And ftrength with melody to blend;
To triumph in the bold career of fong,
And roll th' unwearied energy along.
Does the mean incenfe of promiscuous praife,
Does fervile fear difgrace his regal bays?
I fpurn his panegyric ftrings,
His partial homage, tun'd to kings!
Be mine, to catch his manlier chord,
That paints th' impaffion'd Perfian lord,
By glory fir'd, to pity fu'd,
Rouz'd to revenge, by love fubdu'd;
And ftill, with tranfport new, the strains to trace
That chant the Theban pair, and Tancred's deadly vafe,
Had these bleft bards been call'd, to pay
The vows of this aufpicious day,
Each had confefs'd, a fairer throne,
A mightier fovereign than his own!
Chaucer had bade his hero-monarch yield
The fame of Agincourt's triumphal field
To peaceful prowefs, and the conqueft's calm,
That braid the fcepter with the patriot's palm 1
His chaplets of fantastic bloom,
His colourings warm from Fiction's loom,
Spenfer had caft in fcorn away,
And deck'd with truth alone the lay;
All real here-the bard had feen
The glories of his pictur'd queen!
The tuneful Dryden had not flatter'd here,
His lyre had blameless been, his tribute all fincere!
ODE to a LADY going ABROAD.
[From the Third Volume of the Lounger.]
FAR, from me my Delia goes,
And all my prayr's, my tears are vain ;
Nor fhall I know one hour's repofe,
Till Delia blefs thefe eyes again.
Companion of the wretched, come,
Fair hope! and dwell with me a while;
Thy heavenly prefence gilds the gloom,
While happier fcenes in profpect smile.
Oh! who can tell what time may do?
How all my forrows yet may end?
Can the reject a love fo true?
Can Delia e'er forfake her friend
Unkind and rude the thorn is feen,
No fign of future sweetness fhows;
But time calls forth its lovely green,
And spreads the blushes of the rofe.
Then come, fair hope, and whifper peace,
And keep the happy fcenes in view,
When all thefe çares and fears shall cease,
And Delia bless a love fo true.
Hope, fweet deceiver, ftill believ'd,
In mercy fent to foothe our care:
Oh! tell me am I now deceiv'd,
And wilt thou leave me to defpair?
Then hear, ye powers, my earnest pray'r,
This pang unutterable fave;
Let me not live to know defpair,
But give me quiet in the grave:
Why fhould I live to hate the light,
Be with myself at conftant ftrife,
And drag about, in nature's fpite,
An ufelefs, joyless load of life?
But far from her all ills remove,
Your favourite care let Delia be,
Long bleft in friendship, bleft in love,
And may fhe never think on me.
But if, to prove my love fincere,
The fates a while this trial doom;
Then aid me, hope, my woes to bear,
Nor leave me till my Delia.come;
Till Delia come no more to part,
And all thefe cares and fears remove,
Oh, come! relieve this widow'd heart,
Oh, quickly come! my pride, my love!
My Delia come! whofe looks beguile,
Whofe fmile can charm my cares away;
Oh! come with that enchanting fmile,
And brighten up life's wint'ry day;
Oh, come! and make me full amends,
For all my cares, my fears, my pain ;-
Delia, restore me to my friends,
Restore me to myself again.
BALLAD, in the STILE of Mr. CROW's SONG," SEATON CLIFFS." By Mifs SEWARD.
ROM thy waves, ftormy Lannow, I fly,
From the rocks, that are lafh'd by their tide;
From the maid, whofe cold bofom, relentless as they,
Has wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride!
Yet lonely and rude as the fcene,
Her fimile to that scene could impart
A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale ;-
But away, thou fond dream of my heart!
To thy rocks, ftormy Lannow, adieu!
Now the blafls of the winter come on,
And the waters grow dark as they rise;
But 'tis well!-they refemble the fullen disdain
That has lour'd in thofe infolent eyes.
Sincere were the fighs it reprefs'd,
But they rofe in the days that are flown!-
Ah, Nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My fpirit is proud as thy own.
To thy rocks, ftormy Lannow, adieu !
Lo! the wings of the fea-fowl are spread,
To escape the rough ftorm by their flight!
And thefe caves will afford them a gloomy retreat
From the winds and the billows of night.
Like them, to the home of my youth,
Like them, to the fhades I retire ;
Receive me, and fhield my vex'd fpirit, ye groves,
From the forms of infulted defire!
From thy waves, rocky Lannow, I fly!
THE COURT BELLE.
[From SWIFT's Temple of Folly.]
Gilded chariot, that eclips'd the day,
O'er the proud pavement urg'd its rattling way.
Of filk the reins, for which the murex bled,
And ftain'd the harness with Sidonian red.
The whirling wheels, on burnish'd axles roll'd;
The fpokes were filver, and the naves were gold.
Six Ariels, rang'd behind, attendant wait,
The flaves of beauty, as the moves in state.
Her milk-white steeds the brilliant wonder drew,
With conscious pride th' elated courfers flew :
The birth-day carriage of a well-bred belle :-
Comet more flaming ne'er alarm'd Pal-mel.
The regent of the blazing ftar defcends,
And to the throne with courtly homage bends:
Delufion, with a fmile, the nymph furvey'd,
Th' accomplish'd nymph, and thus, approving, faid:
"By education well-bred nymphs are known,
Who ftudy Gallic grace, and lifp bon-ton..
What proud accomplishments adorn the fair!
Frizeur the head improves, the feet Noverre:
With folos Signor foothes the tender breaft,
A quaver, or a crochet, does the rest.
As France the tinfel of her tongue fupplics,
The loofe entendre in a whifper flies;
Unfailing confidence imbues the whole,
And fixes the cameleon of the foul.
For her the coxcomb billet-doux prepares,
And Smith's own odours breathe immortal airs;
Warren's kind art the chymic rofe fupplies,
And fee this hand, for which the chicken dies!
Fashion is her's, and drefs her punctual care,
The naked neck, the beau bewitching air,
The face that's knowing, and the face that's known,
The tofs of breeding, and the laws of ton,
The plumes of pride, that high in triumph tower,
The rage of conqueft, and the luft of power.
Now, her ambitious fpirit mounts the moon,
Thron'd with Lunardi in his proud balloon.
"Tis thus accomplish'd beauty foars to fame,
And Folly's daughters thus diftinction claim."
"O cried the Goddefs, in exulting strain,
Behold the promis'd triumphs of our reign;
See awful Beauty totter on her throne,
And Levity pretide, where Wisdom fhone!
See Virtue tremble, Decency expire,
The blufhing Graces filently retire;
See Britain's Genius mourn her greatness past,
When all her fons were brave, and all her daughters chaste.”
Dr. CORBET to his SON VINCENT CORBET.
[From HEADLEY's Select Beauties of Antient English Poetry.]
HAT I shall leave thee none can tell,
But all fhall fay I wish thee well.
I wish thee (Vin.) before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghoftly health;
Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undoe thee.
I wish thee learning, not for fhow,
Enough for to instruct, and know j