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Now, Nature, be gay
In the pride of thy May,
To court let thy graces repair :
Let Flora bestow
The crown from her brow,
For our brighter Britannia to wear.
Through every language of thy peopled earth,
Far as the sea's or Cæsar's influence goes,
Let thankful nations celebrate his birth,
And bless the author of the world's repose.
Let Volga tumbling in cascades,
And Po that glides through poplar shades,
And Tagus bright in sands of gold,
And Arethusa, rivers old,
Their great deliverer sing.
Not, Danube, thou whose winding flood
So long has blush'd with Turkish blood,
To Cæfar shall refuie a strain,
Since now thy ítreams without a stain
Run crystal as their spring.
To mighty George, that heals thy wounds,
That names thy kings and marks thy bounds,
The joyful voice, O Europe, raise :
In the great Mediator's praise
Let all thy various tongues combine,
And Britain's festival be thine,
ODE TO THE THAMES, FOR THE YEAR 1719.
ING of the Floods, whom friendly stars ordaig
To fold alternate in thy winding train,
The lofty palace and the fertile vale ;
King of the Floods, Britannia's darling, hail !
Hail with the year so well begun,
And bid his each revolving sun,
Taught by thy streams, in smooth succession run,
From thy never-failing urn
Flowers, bloom and fair increase
With the seasons take their turn;
From thy tributary seas
Tides of various wealth attend thee;
Seas and seasons all befriend thee.
Here on thy banks, to mate the skies,
Augufta's hallow'd domes arise.;
And there thy ample bosam pours
Her numerous souls and floating towers :;
Whose terrors late to vanquish'd Spain were known,
And Ætna hook with thunder not her own.
Fullest flags thou dost sustain,
While thy banks confine thy course ;
Einblem of our Cæsar's reign,
Mingling clemency and force.
So may'st thou still, secur'd by distant wars,
Ne'er stain thy crystal with domestic jars :
As Cæsar's reign, to Britain ever dear,
Shall join with thee to bless the coming year.
On thy shady margin,
Care its load discharging,
Is lull'd to gentle rest:
Britain thus disarming,
Nor no more alarming,
Shall sleep on Cæsar's brçast.
Sweet to distress is balıny sleep,'
To fleep auspicious dreams,
Thy meadows, Thames, to feeding theep,
To thirst,' thy filver streams :
More sweet than all, the praise
Of Cæsar's golden days :
Cæsar's praise is sweeter ;
Britain's pleasure greater ;
Still may Cæsar's reign excel;
Sweet the praise of reigning well.
CH ORU S.
Gentle Janus, ever wait,
As now, on Britain's kindeft fate;
Crown all our vows, and all thy gifts bestow;,
Till Time no more renews his date, And Thames forgets to flow.
THE STORY OF GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA,
FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, BOOK XIII. HE
ERE ceas'd the nymph; the fair assembly broke;
The sea-green Nereids to the waves betook ; While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main, Swift to the safer shore returns again. There o'er the sandy margin, unarray'd, With printless footsteps flies the bounding maid; Or in some winding creek's secure retreat She bathes her weary limbs,and shuns the noonday's heat. Her Glaucus faw, as o'er the deep he rode, New to the seas, and late receiv'd a god. He saw, and languish'd for the virgin's love, With
many an artful blandishment he strove Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove. The more he sues, the more the wings her fight, And nimbly gains a neighbouring mountain's height, Steep shelving to the margin of the flood, A neighbouring mountain bare and woodless stood; Here, by the place fecur'd, her steps the stay'd, And, trembling still, her lover's form survey'd. His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall, And dropping locks that o'er his shoulders fall; She secs his face divine, and manly brow, End in a fish's wreathy tail below : She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind, Whether he comes of god, or monster kind. This Glaucus soon perceiv’d; and, Oh! forbear (His hand supporting on a rock lay near) Forbear, he cry'd, fond maid, this needless fear,
Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main,
But equal with the watery gods I reign ;
Nor Proteus nor Palaemon me excell,
Nor he whose breath inspires the founding shell.
My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race,
And I myself but late a mortal was :
Ev’n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy'd;
The seas my hours, and all my cares, employ'de
In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew;
Now skilfully the sender line I threw,
And filent fate the moving float to view.
Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead,
With herbage half, and half with water spread :
There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray,
Nor shaggy kids nor wanton lambkins play ;
There, nor the founding bees their nectar cull,
Nor rural swains heir genial chaplets pull;
Nor flocks, ncr herds, nor mowers, haunt the place,
To crop the flowers, or cut the bushy grass :
Thither, sure first of living race came I,
And fat by chance, my dropping nets to dry.
My scaly prize, in order all display'd,
By number on the greensword there I lay'd,
My captives, whom or in my nets I took,
Or hung unwary on my wily hook.
Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye ?
I saw them bite the grass, as I fate by;
Then sudden darting o'er the verdant plain,
They spread their finns, as in their native main ::
I paus’d, with wonder struck, while all my prey
Left their new master, and regaind the sea.