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ODE II.

ON

TRUE GREATNESS.

BY THE REV. MR. HUDSON.

Let who will climb the towery steep

Of sovereignty, with slippery strides,
Where, on the bosom of the deep

Below, the pitchy pinnace rides :
A death’s head fag, unfurl'd to view,

Waves ghastly ; and a sable crew
Gaze from the deck, and seem to wait,
Dash'd down the pointed rocks, the rash unfortunate.

Mine be the low and level way,

Amid the quiet vale to stray. Safe in some sylvan lodge to dwell,

And lull'd by the clear stream that speeds

By shallow fords to rustling reeds,
And small lakes, fring'd with homely asphodel.

There sits the calm, the rural sage,

With nature's volume fair in view;
And meditates the shining page

Replete with wonders ever new:
While Wisdom points on either hand,
Where plants, and herbs, and flow'rets stand

In emerald groves, and shadowy glades,
In furzy moors, or musky-smelling meads.

Truth, in her liquid glass serene,

To him explains each moral scene : Oft, in the downward skies, a train

Of tinsel insect he surveys,

Or glow-worm, with fallacious blaze, Just emblem of court greatness, frail and vain.

1

Oft in his woodland walk he stops to mark

The spirited and youthful lark,
Warn’d by the dawning in the dappled east,

Lift his melodious flight thro’ upper air ;
Late the low tenant of the rushy nest

Now sings unrivall’d in his radiant sphere. The pondering Hermit then sees Merit roam, Above the nurslings of the courtly dome, On Glory's sparkling wheels, rais'd from its hum

ble dome.

First of the families of fame,

That Rome's imperial city grace, From rural huts and hamlets came

The Fabia and Fabrician race;
With that firm judge that could contemn
And banish the proud diadem.
To Sabine fields she owes the vine,
Whose tendrils yet round Virtue's column twine;

Which braves Oppression's wintry breath,
And stand the icy touch of Death.

The leafless Alock, that Fortune dooms

To wither, with returning spring

(While the glad focks of Freedom sing) Profuse of promis'd sweets, with double vigour

blooms.

Hark! hark! 'tis Brutus' name I hear,

Join'd with his fair, heroic bride ;
To Honour's hallow'd fane they steer

Along the favourable tide ;
To her and Safety there to place
The tablet, vow'd to human race :

Blow, every kind and gentle gale
Of gratitude, and fan the swelling sail.

High on a fleecy couch reclin’d,

Of white and amber clouds confin'd, Rome's genius lifts his august head;

Now slow descending nearer draws,

Hail'd with the popular applause,
And bids the solemn pageantry proceed.
Go, the triumphal ornaments display:
Ye sacred Salii lead the way:
Next led the order of Patrician blood,

In awful march a num'rous train compose,
And follow'd by the jubilating crowd ;

As Cybelé thro' Phrygian cities goes, Majestic, and with golden turrets crown'd: A hundred gods her gorgeous car surround, A thousand tongues acclaim; the clanging cym.

bals sound.

.

ODE III.

TO

THE ATHEIST.

BY R. SHEPHERD, D. D.

Expatiate long in nice debate,
On Chance, Necessity, and Fate:

With learn'd Lucretius stray
In Epicurus' magic grove,
Where the self-motion'd atoms rove

In mazy mystic play.

Some vain hypothesis admit,
The specious cobweb-work of wit;

And daringly deny
What every object round avows,
What every act of Reason shews,

An All-wise Deity.

The clearest evidence contest,
Divinely stampt on every breast,

Since Time was taught to roll ;
In Errors gloomy coverts stray,
From Truth's indisputable ray

Remote, as pole from pole.

So shuts the moping bird of night
Her feeble eyes against the light,

That glads the cheerful day ;
And when prevailing darkness reigns,
Thro' groves obscene, or dreary plains,

She wings her dubious way.
Consult the blue expanse on high,
The blush that paints the morning sky,

The cloud that nimbly rides,
The orbs that mark with lustre bright
The spangled mantle of the night,

Who there supreme resides.
Question the gaudy flowers around,
That scent the air, or paint the ground,

Whose influence they obey :
Whose hand imparts the various dyes,
At whose command they bud and rise,

At whose command decay.

Say ye, on down, or mountain steep,
That stately tread, or lowly creep;

And aerial throng,
That cheer the woodland scene and fields
With vocal strains; whose bounty yields,

Or sustenance or song:

ye

Who, in the ocean's waste domain,
The tenants of the watry plain

With liberal hand supplies ?

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