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Shall all to thee those various praises give,
Which, through thy friendly aid, themselves receive ;
For though thou mayst from glory's seats retire,

Where loud applause proclaim the honour’d name; Yet doth thy modest wisdom still inspire

Each nobler work that swells the voice of Fame.






Sorr Sleep, profoundly pleasing power,
Sweet patron of the peaceful hour,
O listen from thy calm abode,
And hither wave thy magic rod;
Extend thy silent, soothing sway,
And charm the canker Care away.
Whether thou lov'st to glide along,
Attended by an airy throng
Of gentle dreams and smiles of joy,
Such as adorn the wanton boy ;
Or to the monarch's fancy bring
Delights that better suit a king;
The glittering host, the groaning plain,
The clang of arms, and victor's train;
Or, should a milder vision please,
Present the happy scenes of peace ;
Plump Antumn, blushing all around,
Rich Industry with toil embrown'd,
Content, with brow serenely gay,
And genial Art's refulgent ray.





Friend to the gloomy shade of night!
Vást source of fanciful delight!
Power! whose care-dissolving sway,
The slave that pants o'er Indian hills,

The wretch whom snow-girt Zembla chills,
And wide creation's fertile race obey;
The joyous choristers that fit in air,
The mutes that dwell beneath the silver food,
The savage howling o'er th'affrighted wood,
And man, th’imperious lord of all, thy power declare.

Thy magic wand can oft restrain
The miser's sordid hopes of gain ;
Can make each heart-felt trouble cease :
Or from the sickening thought suspend

The image of a dying friend ;
Vol. XIII.

And lull Suspicion's wakeful

eyes in peace.
If thou but soothe the faithful lover's rest,
No fond remembrance of each parting sigh,

Of Beauty's smile, or Pity's streaming eye,
In grief's soft moments steal around his aching breast.

Fair Virtue's friend! thou ne'er shalt shed
Thy blessings o'er the impious head,
Or 'midst the noise of crowds be found;
Thy balm-distilling sweets alone

To ermin'd Innocence are known,
And gay Content, with rural garlands crown'd.
By thee the shadow-trembling murderer's guilt
With doubled terror wrings the tortur'd soul,

The purpled steel, the life-destructive bowl,
Recall the baleful liorrors of the blood he spilt.

When by some pale and livid light
I cheat the tedious hours of night,
Indulging o'er the Attic page :
The dying taper warns to rest,

Thy visions seize my ravish'd breast,
And pictur'd beauties real woes assuage.
O'er Helicon my bleeting lambs I giard,
Or, mix'd with dull Boeotia's simple swains,

Protect my Aocks in humble Ascra's plains,
And view the sky-born sisters hail their favourite bard.

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Methinks I bear the Theban lyre;
I feel my ravish'd soul aspire :
The nymphs surround the infant boy.
Already, conscious of his fame,

The festive choirs their hopes proclaim,
While Pan exults with uncouth signs of joy.
For thee, sole glory of thy abject race,
The thyme-fed bees their luscious sweets diffuse,

To soothe the numbers of thy copious muse,
And in Boeotia fix each coy reluctant grace.

Oft, fir'd with Bacchanalian rage,
The Father of the Grecian stage,
In terror clad, annoys my rest;
I feel unnumber'd horrors rise !

The sight forsakes my swimming eyes,
While hissing furies rush upon my breast.
In solemn pomp, I see old Gela mourn,
Dissolv'd in grief beside the poet's grave,

To sorrowing sounds he lulls each plaintive wave;
His willows fading, and'his sea-green mantle torn.

With longing taste, with eager lip,
In raptur'd visions oft I sip
The honey of the tragic bee :
Whose strains could every tempest quell,

Could every noxious blast dispel,
And still the hollow roaring of the sea.
Whose powerful fancy, whose exhaustless vein,

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