ODE TO PEACE.' O Thou, who bad'st thy turtles bear And bade his storms arise! Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway, His sullen shrines to burn: But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres, What sounds inay charm thy partial ears, And gain thy blest return! O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind! Of all thy beamy train: The British lion, Goddess sweet,] Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet, And own thy holier reign. Let others court thy transient smile, And, while around her ports rejoice, THE MANNERS. AN ODE. FAREWELL, for clearer ken design'd, Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen, Youth of the quick uncheated sight, Thy walks, Observance, more invite! O thou, who lov'st that ampler range, Where life's wide prospects round thee change, And, with her mingled sons allied, To learn, where Science sure is found, To dream in her enchanted school; Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell, Not vain she finds the charmful task, In pageant quaint, in motley mask; Behold, before her musing eyes, The countless Manners round her rise; While ever varying as they pass, To some Contempt applies her glass: With these the white-rob'd Maids combine, And those the laughing Satyrs join! But who is he whom now she views, In robe of wild contending hues? Thou by the passions nurs'd; I greet Me too amidst thy band admit, There where the young eyed healthful Wit, Are plac'd each other's beams to share, By old Miletus * who so long By him, whose Knight's distinguish'd name Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet, Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore, * Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances. The Milesian and Tuscan romances were by no means distinguished for humour; but as they were the models of that species of writing in which humour was afterwards employed, they are, probably, for that reason only, mentioned here.-L. + Cervantes. Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1747. E Who drew the sad Sicilian maid, O Nature boon, from whom proceed On all my heart imprint thy seal! Let some retreating Cynic find Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind, To rove thy scene-full world with thee! THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, Possest beyond the Muse's painting; *The Story of Blanche (see Gil Blas, b. 2, ch. 4,) has more to do with the high passions than with manners.-B. |