5

Beneath fair Ulyssippo's walls,

The frighted Lusitanian calls;

Thee, they who drink the Seine, with those
Who plough Iberian fields, implore,
To give the lab'ring world repose,

And universal peace restore:

Thee, Gallia, mournful to survive the fate
Of her fall'n grandeur and departed state;
By sad experience taught to own,

That virtue is a noble way to rise,
A surer passage to the skies,
Than Pelion upon Ossa thrown:
For they, who impiously presume

To grasp at Heav'n, by Jove's eternal doom,
A prey to thunder shall become;

Or, sent in Aetna's fiery cave to groan,

Gain but an higher fall, a mountain for their tomb.

ODE XXV.

THE GENIUS.

WRITTEN IN 1717, ON OCCASION OF

THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH's APOPLEXY.

BY LEONARD welsted, ESQ.

AWFUL hero, Marlb'rough, rise:
Sleepy charms I come to break :
Hither turn thy languid eyes:
Lo! thy Genius calls: awake!

Well survey this faithful plan,
Which records thy life's great story;

'Tis a short, but crowded span,

Full of triumphs, full of glory.

One by one thy deeds review,

Sieges, battles, thick appear;
Former wonders, lost in new,

Greatly fill each pompous year.

This is Blenheim's crimson field,

Wet with gore, with slaughter stain❜d ! Here retiring squadrons yield,

And a bloodless wreath is gain'd!

Ponder in thy godlike mind

All the wonders thou hast wrought; Tyrants, from their pride declin'd, Be the subject of thy thought!

Rest thee here, while life may last:
Th' utmost bliss, to man allow'd,
Is to trace his actions past,

And to own them great and good.

But 'tis gone-a mortal born!

Swift the fading scenes remove-
Let them pass with noble scorn,
Thine are worlds, which roll above.

Poets, prophets, heroes, kings,

Pleas'd, thy ripe approach foresee; Men, who acted wond'rous things, Though they yield in fame to thee.

Foremost in the patriot band,
Shining with distinguish'd day!
See thy friend, Godolphin stand!
Seel he beckons thee away.

Yonder seats and fields of light
Let thy ravish'd thought explore;
Wishing, panting for thy flight!
Half an angel; man no more.

ODE XXVI.

ON

THE DEATH OF

QUEEN CARoline.

BY RICHARD WEST, ESQ.

SING we no more of HYMENEAL lays,
Nor strew the land with myrtles and with bays:
The voice of joy is fled the BRITISH shore,
For CAROLINE's no more:

And now our sorrows ask a sadder string;
Come, plaintive goddess of the Cyrrhan spring,
Pour thy deep note, and shed thy tuneful tear,
And while we lose the memory of pain
In thy oblivious strain,

-Ah! drop thy cypress on yon mournful bier! Begin: nor more delay

The sacred meed of gratitude to pay:
Begin: whate'er immortal song can do,

To the dear name of CAROLINE is due :

Who loves the Muse, deserves the Muse's love: Then raise thy numbers high,

Sound out her glory to the throne of Jove,

Spread the glad voice through all the ambient sky,