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Swoll'n thoughts in his tumultuous soul
Now like the troubled billows roll;
Becalm'd, they now to spleen subside,
Now, languid, as the ebbing tide!

Yet as thy volant touch pursues
Through all proportions low and high
The wondrous fugue, it peace renews
Serene as the unsullied sky,

Gladsome, as when Aurora's cheerful beams Dispel vain phantoms and delusive dreams. Th' attending Graces with thy fingers move, And as they interweave the various notes, Concord and ease, delight and purest love, Flow where the undulating music floats! Base spirits fly; and all is Holy ground Within the circle of the sacred sound!

See! Discord of her rage disarm'd,
Relenting, calm, and bland as Peace ;
Ev'n restless noisy Faction charm'd,
And Envy forc'd thy skill to bless!
Here Phrenzy and distracted Care

Pleas'd and compos'd would ever dwell;
While joys, unknown till now they share,
And feel a Heaven possess'd for Hell !

Should Hate with Furies leagu'd combine,

Till all be into ruin hurl'd,

Say, would not Harmony like thine
Quell the wild uproar of the world?

As when a raging tempest roars,

Some secret power the storm restrains, Hush'd are the waves, gay smile the shores, And peace o'er all the ocean reigns.

Oh then that they whose rage and hate
A brood of deadly mischiefs nurse,
Who secret all our ills create,

And then their own dire offspring curse,
That all in one assembly join'd,

Could hear thy healing soothing strain! Soon shouldst thou calm their troubled mind, And Reason should her seat regain :

Then in sweet sounds like thine, so soft a style,
Hoadly or Fleetwood silver-tongu'd should show
How rage would ravish, from our frighten'd Isle,
The dear-bought blessings to the laws we owe :
How from just laws the world derives repose,
And Harmony through all the glad Creation flows!
Their voice th' enlighten'd crowd to peace should

move,

And fix for ever firm in loyalty and love.

ODE XIX.

OCCASIONED BY READING

MR. WEST's TRANSLATION OF PINDAR.

BY THE REV. J. WARTON, D. D.

ALBION, exult! thy sons a voice divine have heard,
The man of Thebes hath in thy vales appear'd!
Hark! with fresh rage and undiminish'd fire,
The sweet enthusiast smites the British lyre;
The sounds that echoed on Alpheus' streams
Reach the delighted ear of listening Thames:
Lo! swift across the dusty plain

Great Theron's foaming coursers strain!
What mortal tongue e'er roll'd along
Such full impetuous tides of nervous song?

The fearful, frigid lays of cold and creeping Art,
Nor touch, nor can transport th' unfeeling heart;
Pindar, our inmost bosom piercing, warms
With glory's love, and eager thirst of arms;
When Freedom speaks in his majestic strain,
The patriot-passions beat in every vein :

We long to sit with heroes old,
'Mid groves of vegetable gold,
Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell,
And still of daring deeds and dangers tell.

Away, enervate bards, away,
Who spin the courtly, silken lay,
As wreaths for some vain Louis' head,
Or mourn some soft Adonis dead:
No more your polish'd lyrics boast,
In British Pindar's strength o’erwhelm'd and lost:
As well might ye compare

The glimmerings of a waxen flame,
(Emblem of verse correctly tame)
To his own Aetna's sulphur-spouting caves,
When to Heav'n's vault the fiery deluge raves,

When clouds and burning rocks dart thro' the trou bled air.

In roaring cataracts down Andes' channel'd steeps
Mark how enormous Orellana sweeps!

Monarch of mighty floods! supremely strong,
Foaming from cliff to cliff he whirls along,
Swoln with an hundred hills' collected snows:
Thence over nameless regions widely flows,

Round fragrant isles, and citron-groves,
Where still the naked Indian roves,
And safely builds his leafy bow'r,

From slavery far, and curst Iberian power.

So rapid Pindar flows.--O parent of the lyre,
Let me for ever thy sweet sons admire !

O ancient Greece, but chief the bard whose lays
The matchless tale of Troy divine emblaze;
And next Euripides, soft pity's priest,

Who melts in useful woes the bleeding breast;
And him, who paints th' incestuous king,
Whose soul amaze and horror wring;
Teach me to taste their charms refin'd,
The richest banquet of th' enraptur'd mind!

For the blest man, the Muse's child, On whose auspicious birth she smil❜d, Whose soul she form'd of purer fire, For whom she tun'd a golden lyre, Seeks not in fighting fields renown: No widows' midnight shrieks, nor burning town, The peaceful poet please;

Nor ceaseless toils for sordid gains,

Nor purple pomp, nor wide domains,

Nor heaps of wealth, nor power, nor statesman's schemes,

Nor all deceiv'd Ambition's feverish dreams,

Lure his contented heart from the sweet vale of ease.

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