ODES.

CLASS THE SEVENTH

CONTINUED.

ODE XXXIII.

TO LOLLIUS.

BY JOHN HALL STEVENSON, ESQ.

THO' born in an ungenial clime,

Where T. with brawls his tribute pays,

'Tis possible, my Lord, for Time
To fancy these uncommon lays.

If Shakespear ev'ry muse inspire,
Sole sov'reign of the tuneful throng,
Praise still is due to Cowley's lyre,
And Gray's sweet melancholy song.

Prior shall live with laughing eye
Amongst the vivid sons of Fame;
Maids ever weep, and widows sigh,
And burn with Eloisa's flame.

Not Sparta's queen alone has tripp'd;

Charm'd with fine breeding and fine cloaths, Other fair princesses have slipp'd,

And troubled the whole world's repose.

Teucer is not the only prince

Famous for shooting the long bow; Troy has been lost before, and since, By cunning, with a patriot show.

Heroes have bled, as well as Hector,

Both for their minions and chaste wives;
Else how had Cromwell been Protector,
Or Charles and Edward lost their lives?

Pitts, with the same aspiring mind,
In dark oblivion are gone down ;
But they had not the luck to find
Churchills to hand them to renown.

Worth, undistinguish'd by applause,
But equals sloth; nor shall the chief
In livid silence guard our laws,
Forgotten like a mouldy brief.

Supremely wise when wisdom's wanted,
Prudent where caution is a merit,
Upright, inflexible, undaunted,
Pure and enlighten'd like a spirit;