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Whose daring genius, whose triumphant wing,

Deep source from whence ten thousand rivers spring, Just bounds could limit, and each rigid rule restrain,

How oft, inspir'd with magic dread,
By Fancy to the cave I'm led,
Where sits the wise Pierian sage;
With piercing eye, with pensive mind,

In attic solitude reclin'd,
Stern Virtue's precepts chill the poet's rage.
Blest bardl whose muse, mid mildest mortals strong,
Could each rebellious appetite controul,

Could wake each tender feeling of the soul,
And deck instruction in the pleasing charms of song.

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With patriot ardor I behold

The. mirthful Muse for freedom bold;
Tho'chaste, severe; tho' poignant, sweet ;
For long uncertain where to rest,
At length upon the poet's breast
The sportive Graces fix'd their gay retreat.
With simpler strains the Doric Muses charm;
And oft to nobler themes of heavenly praise

As Libya's poet hymns his solemn lays,
The wanton Teian loves each chaster thought disarm.

Thus

may thy languid charms dispense Their blessings o'er my ravish'd sense, By thee to Attic worlds convey'd.

Thus, if at Juno's fond request,

Thou e'er on Ida's top opprest Th’ Almighty Thunderer with thy dewy shade, To soothe one mortal thy fond care employ! And, Morpheus, thus may thy mild Lethéan powers,

For ever hovering round my midnight hours, Thro' Fancy's mirror wrap me in ideal joy.

ODE XLIV.

ON

SLEEP.

BY JAMES SCOTT, D.D.

Why, gentle God, this long delay,
Since Night, and careless Quiet reigns?
Oh, hither take thy silent way,

And sooth, ah sooth my wakeful pains !
So shall my hands for thee the wreath entwine,
And strew fresh poppies at thy votive shrine.

When from the North, all wan and pale,
The sun withdraws his cheerful light,
And, arm'd with whirlwind, frost, and hail,

The big clouds bring the half year's night, Quick to their caves the shiv’ring natives tend, And hear without the rattling storms descend,

Then, stretcht along the shaggy bed,
To thee, indulgent Power, they cry;
Borne on thy wings, with happier speed,
The leaden-footed moments fly;

While Fancy paints Spring's visionary stores, Andcalls the distant sun to wake the slumb’ring flow'rs.

Nor yet is Sleep's supreme command
Confin'd to these cold dreary plains;
O’er sultry Libya's boiling sand

This universal monarch reigns ;
And where with heat the sable Indians glow,
While streams of light through purest aether flow.

Weary and faint the dusky slaves
From cold Potosi's mines retire,
From rugged rocks, and darkling caves,

When scarce the panting lungs respire :
To citron shades they take their pensive way,
Where, bath'd in od'rous winds, their listless limbs

they lay,

The tyrant's voice, the galling chain,
Th’uplifted scourge no more they fear,
Deep slumbers drown the sense of pain ;

And, floating through the peopled air,
Ideal forms in pleasing order rise,
And bright illusions swim before their eyes.

Now Orellana's foaming tide
With pliant arms they seem to cleave ;
And now the light canoe to guide
Across Muenca's glassy wave;

Or chase in jocund troops the

savage prey, Through woods impervious to the solar ray.

Some gentle youth, by love betray'd,
Recalls the joys he felt of old,
When, wand'ring with his sable maid

Through groves of vegetable gold,
He clasp'd her yielding to his raptur'd breast,
And free from guile his honest soul exprest.

Sleep on, much-injur'd hapless swain,
Nor wake thy cruel fate to moan,
To curse th’insatiate thirst of gain,

And proud Iberia's bloody son!
Old India's genius wept o'er millions slain,
And streams of gore ran foaming to the main.

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But why to tragic scenes like these
Wilt thou, my restless fancy, rove?
Bear me to climes of downy ease,

To climes that sleep, and silence love :
Whether the shades of Lemnos most invite,
Or dark Cimmerian caves the still abode of night,

Fond fables all !—The partial God
Is Aown to Belgia's drowsy plains,
There waves his Lethe-sprinkled rod,

And link'd with kindred Dullness reigns :
'Midst stagnant pools, the Bittern's safe retreat,
Beset with osiers dank behold his gloomy seat!

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