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Oh! welcome, welcome to these blest abodes,
Great Hero, true descendant of the Gods,
Whose potent arm shall Pergamus restore,
To rise immortal on our Latin shore!
Proceed triumphant in thy proud career,
Here is thy home, thy household gods are here:
Dread not the war; its threat'nings all are vain ;
The Gods relent, and Heav'n grows mild again.
Nor think an airy vision of the night,

An empty dream, can thus delude thy sight;
Thou soon shalt view, beneath an oak reclin'd,
A snow-white mother of the bristly kind,
With all her offspring, thirty snow-white young,
Her teats encircling as she lies along.

There, far-fam'd hero, shall thy town ascend,
There all thy labours, all thy woes shall end.
Heav'n by this sign ordains thy royal son,
When thirty years in full succession run,
Shall build fair Alba, high-renown'd in fame,
Which from this omen shall derive her name.
Doubt not the truth of my prophetic strain,
But mark my words; for how success to gain
I briefly shall unfold. A foreign band,
From Pallas sprung, forsook th' Arcadian land,
And hither with Evander bent their way,
His banners join'd, and own'd his sov'reign sway;
Here 'mid the hills their rising city wall'd,
And Pallanteum from their Pallas call'd.
Against thy foes they show invet'rate rage,
Incessant war they with the Latians wage.
Go join their forces, their alliance gain,
And spurn the threats of all the hostile train :
Rise, Goddess-born! employ the lab'ring oar,
Myself will waft thee to that friendly shore.
And when the setting stars are lost in day,
To Juno's pow'r the due devotions pay;

Her vengeful ire with pious rites control,
With suppliant pray'r appease her haughty soul.
When from thy face thy vanquish'd foes shall flee,
Return, and pay thy grateful vows to me.
The God am I whose yellow waters flow
Around these fields, and fatten as they go :
Tiber my name; of all the rolling floods
Most fam'd on earth, most grateful to the Gods.
Here is my chosen seat: in times to come
My waves shall wash the walls of mighty Rome.
Then plung'd the God into his oozy bed,
And, with the night, the hero's slumber fled.

ODE FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO.

PHILLIPS.

BLEST as th' immortal Gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost;
My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd ;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

FINGAL AND THE SPIRIT OF LODA.

FROM OSSIAN.

SLOW in the east the wan cold moon arose,
While on the youths descended soft repose.
Their helmets glitter in the slanting rays;
With sick'ning beam the fading fire decays.
But no soft sleep the anxious monarch found,
And as he rose, his armour rung around.
The hill he slowly climb'd at that lone hour,
To view the distant flame of Sarno's tower.

Dim was the flame which scarce his eyes could

trace;

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In eastern clouds the moon conceal'd her face;
Then shrill the mountain blast tempestuous sings,
And Loda's spirit bears upon its wings.
With terrors circled round, his place he took
Aloft in air his dusky spear he shook.
Like living flames appear'd his glaring eyes;
His voice like distant thunder in the skies.
With his strong spear Fingal advancing on,
Thus hail'd the tenant of the cloudy throne:
"Retire: invoke thy winds, thou Son of Night,
And from my presence speed thy sudden flight.
Why thus with shadowy arms, amid the storm,
Thou dismal Spirit, comes thy gloomy form?
Weak is thy shield of clouds, and feeble too
Thy meteor sword that glimmers to my view;
The blast together rolls both sword and shield,
And thou dost vanish from the bloodless field.
Retire: invoke thy winds, thou Son of Night,
And from my presence speed thy sudden flight."
"Dost thou to force me from my place pretend?"
The hollow voice replied" The people bend

Before my wrath-for I can turn the day,
When march the valiant on in proud array.
On nations when I look, they yield their breath;
My nostrils pour the fatal blast of death.
Upon the winds my lofty path I keep;
Before my face the driving tempests sweep;
But calm above the clouds my dwellings lie,
And sweet the rest my pleasant fields supply."
"Then," said Fingal, "thy pleasant dwellings
find,

And let not Comal's son disturb thy mind.
Is e'er by me thy cloudy threshold press'd?
Do I presume to break thy peaceful rest?
Dread Loda's Spirit, do I watch thee here,
Or meet thee on thy cloud with threat'ning spear?
Why therefore on Fingal those frowns from thee?
Why dost thou shake thine airy spear at me?
But still on me thou frown'st in vain from high;
I ne'er was known from mighty men to fly;
Shall then the King of Morven dread the blows
The wind's weak sons may threaten? well he knows
The feeble weapons of such feeble foes."

"Haste to thy land," the gloomy Form replied,
"Receive the fav'ring winds, and sweep the tide.
My hand controls the blasts with mighty power,
'Tis I command the wrathful storm to lower.
The King of Sora is my favour'd son;
Still at my altar is his homage done.
Round Carrick-thura is his battle's course,
And I have arm'd him with prevailing force.
Then, Son of Comal, to thy land return,
Else shall my fiery wrath with fury burn!"
His shadowy spear he lifted to the fight,
And forward bent in air his dreadful height.-
Fingal advancing drew his sword, (the blade
Which dark-brown Luno's skilful hand had made),

The gleaming steel winds through the gloomy ghost,
And straight in air the shapeless form is lost ;-
So fades a column of ascending smoke,

Whose cloudy wreaths some playful boy has broke,
When from the furnace it ascends on high,
And, parted thus, it melts into the sky.

The Spirit shriek'd, as rising on the wind,
He roll'd into himself, nor left a trace behind ;
While Inistore at the tremendous sound
Affrighted shook, and spread the terror round;
The billows heard it 'mid their wild career,
And their swift course was stay'd with sudden fear.

LINES COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, IN

SOMERSETSHIRE.

COLERIDGE.

My pensive Sarah! thy soft cheek reclin'd
Thus on my arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd jess'mine, and the broad-leav'd
myrtle,

(Meet emblems they of innocence and love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with

light,

Slow-sadd'ning round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world so
hush'd!

The stilly murmur of the distant sea

Tells us of silence; and that simplest lute
Plac'd lengthways in the clasping casement, hark!

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