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The leafless Aock, that Fortune dooms
(While the glad flocks of Freedom sing) Profuse of promis'd sweets, with double vigour
Hark! hark ! 'tis Brutus' name I hear,
Join'd with his fair, heroic bride ;
Along the favourable tide ;
Blow, every kind and gentle gale
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,
In awful march a num'rous train compose,
As Cybelé thro' Phrygian cities goes,
EXPATIATE long in nice debate,
With learn'd Lucretius stray
In mazy mystic play.
Some vain hypothesis admit,
And daringly deny
act of Reason shews,
The clearest evidence contest,
Since Time was taught to roll;
Remote, as pole from pole.
So shuts the moping bird of night
That glads the cheerful day ;
She wings her dubious way.
The cloud that nimbly rides,
Whose influence they obey :
At whose command decay.
And ye aerial throng,
Or sustenance or song :
Who, in the ocean's waste domain,
With liberal hand supplies ?
The floods in icy fetters binds,
Or bids the tempest rise?
Above the morning's wings, Beyond the sea's remotest tides, Beneath the daedal earth resides
Th' Almighty King of Kings.
BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.
(Late Poet-Laureat. )
Once, I remember well the day, •Twas ere the blooming sweets of May
Had lost their freshest hues: When every flower on ev'ry hill, In ev'ry vale had drank its fill
Of sun-shine and of dews.
In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
To Summer's glowing hand,
Which fan the smiling land.
'Twas then, beside a green-wood shade, Which cloth'd a lawn's aspiring head,
I urg'd my devious way,
So wondrous bright the day.