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Not danger, toil, the tedious weary way,
Nor all the Gallic powers his promis'd aid delay.
Like truth itself unknowing how to fail,
He scorn'd to doubt, and knew he must prevail.
Thus ever certain does the sun appear,

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Bound by the law of Jove's eterxal year;
Thus constant to his course sets out at morn,
Round the wide world in twice twelve hours is born,
And to a moment keeps his fix'd return.

Straight to the town the heroes turn their care,
Their friendly succour for thebrave prepare,
And on the foe united bend the war.
O'er the steep trench and ramparts guarded height,
At once they rush, and drive the rapid flight;
With idle arms the Gallic legions seem

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To stem the rage of the resistless stream ;
At once it bears them down, at once they yield,
Headlong are push'd and swept along the field;
Resistance ceales, and 'tis war no more,
At once the vanquish'd own the victor's power; 470
Throughout the field, where-e'er they turn their fight,
'Tis all or conquest or inglorious flight;
Swift to their rescued friends their joys they bear,
With life and liberty at once they chear,
And save them in the moment of despair.

So timely to the aid of sinking Rome,
With active haste did great Camillus come:
So to the Capitol he forc'd his way,
So from the proud Barbarians snatch'd his prey,
And fav’d his country in one signal day.

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From impious arms at length, O Louis cease !
And leave at length the labouring world in peace,
Left heaven disclose some yet more fatal scene,
Fatal beyond Ramillia or Turin;
Lest from thy hand thou see thy sceptre torn,
And humbled in the dust thy losses mourn:
Lest urg'd at length thy own repining Nave,
Though fond of burdens, and in bondage brave,
Pursue thy hoary head with curses to the grave.

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FLAVIA, to you with fafety I commend

This verse, the secret failing of your friend.. To your good-nature I securely trust, Who know, that to conceal, is to be just. The Muse, like wretched maids by love undone, From friends, acquaintance and the light would run je Conscious of folly, fears attending shame, Fears the censorious world, and loss of fame. Some confident by chance the finds (though few Pity the fools, whom love or verse undo) Whose fond compassion fooths her in the sing. And fets her on to venture once again.

Süre, * Anne Countess of Winchelsea.

Sure, in the better ages of old time, Nor. poetry nor love was thought a crime ; From heaven they both the gods best gifts were sent, Divinely perfect both, and innocent. Then were bad poets and loofe loves not known; None felt a warmth which they might blush to own, Beneath cool, shades ur happy fathers lay, And spent in pure untainted joys the day : Artless their loves, artless their numbers were, While Nature simply did in both appear, Now could the censor or the critic fear. Pleas'd to be pleas'd, they took what heaven bestowidos Nor were too curious of the given good. At length, like Indians fond of fancy'd toys, We loft being happy, to be thought more wise. In one curs’d age, to punish verfe and sin, Critics and hangmen, both at once, came in. Wit and the laws had both the same ill fate, And partial tyrants [way'd in either state. Ill-natur’d censure would be sure to damn An alien-wit of independent fame, While Bays grown old, and harden'd in offence, Was suffer'd to write on in spite of sense ; Back’d by his friends, th' invader brought along A crew of foreign words into our tongue, To ruin and enslave the free-born English song ; Still the prevailing faction propt his throne, And to four volumes let bis Plays run on; Then a lewd tide of verse, with vicious rage, Broke in upon the morals of the age.

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The Stage (whose art was once the mind to move
To noble daring, and to virtuous love).
Precept, with pleasure mix’d, no more profest, .
But dealt in double-meaning bawdy jeft:
The shocking sounds offend the bluthing fair,
And drive them from the guilty Theatre.
Ye wretched bards ! from whom these ills have sprung,
Whom the avenging powers have spard too long,
Well may you fear the blow will surely come,
Your Sodom has no Ten to avert its doom ;
Unless the fair Ardelia will alone
To heaven for all the guilty tribe atone;
Nor can Ten Saints do more than such a One.
Since the alone of the poetic crowd
To the falle gods of wit has never bow'd,
The empire, which she saves, shall own her sway,
And all Parnassus her bless'd laws obey.

Say, from what facred fountain, nymph divine !
The treasures flow, which in thy verse do shine ?
With what strange inspiration art thou blest,
What more than Delphic ardour warns thy breast?
Our fordid earth ne'er bred so bright a flame,
But from the skies, thy kindred skies, it came.
To numbers great like thine, th' angelic: quire
In joyous concert tune the golden lyre;
Viewing, with pitying eyes, our cares with thee,
They wisely own, that “ All is Vanity;"
Ev'n all the joys which mortal minds can know,
And find Ardelia's verse the least vain thing below.

If Pindar's name to those bless'd manfions reach, And mortal Mures may immortal teach,

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In verse like his, the heavenly nation raise
Their tuneful voices to their Maker's praise.
Nor shall celestial harmony disdain,
For once, to imitate an earthly strain,
Whose fame secure, no rival e'er can fear,
But those above, and fair Ardelia here.
She who undaunted could his raptures view,
And with bold wings his facred heights pursue;
Safe through the Dithyrambic stream she steer’d,
Nor the rough deep in all its dangers fear’d;
Not so the rest, who with successless pain
Th’unnavigable torrent try'd in vain.

So Clelia leap'd into the rapid flood,
While the Etruscans struck with wonder stood :
Amidst the waves her rash pursuers dy'd,
The matchless dame could only stem the tide,
And gain the glory of the farther side.

See with what pomp the antic masque comes in !
The various forms of the fantastic spleen.
Vain empty laughter, howling grief and tears,
False joy, bred by false hope, and falser fears ;
Each vice, each passion which pale nature wears,
In this odd monstrous medley mix'd appears.
Like Bays 's dance, confusedly round they run,
Statesman, Coquet, gay Fop, and pensive Nun,
Spectres and Heroes, Husbands and their Wives,
With Monkish Drones that dream away their lives..
Long have I labourd with the dire disease,
No: found, but from Ardelia’s numbers, ease :
The dancing verse runs through my sluggish veins,
Where dull and cold the frozen blood remains,

Pale

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