ODE XXIV.

ON

LYRIC POETRY.

BY SIR JAMES MARRIOT, BART.

I. I.

INMATE of smoaking cots, whose rustic shed,
Within this humble bed,

Her twittering progeny contains,
The swallow sweeps the plains,
Or lightly skims from level lakes the dew.
The ringdove, ever true,

In plaintive accents tells of unrelenting fate,
Far from the raven's croak, and bird of night,
That shrieking wings her flight,

When, at his mutter'd rite,

Hid in the dusky desart vale,

With starting eye, and visage pale,

The grimly wizard sees the spectres rise unholy;
But haunts the woods that held her beauteous mate,
And wooes the echo soft with murmurs melancholy.

I. 2.

Sublime alone the feather'd monarch flies,

His nest dark mists upon the mountains shrowd;
In vain the howling storms arise,

When borne on outstretch'd plume aloft he springs,
Dashing with many a stroke the parting cloud,
Or to the buoyant air commits his wings,
Floating with even sail adown the liquid skies:
Then darting upward, swift his wings aspire,
Where thunders keep their gloomy seat,
And lightnings, arm'd with Heaven's avenging ire.
None can the dread artillery meet,

Or through the airy region rove,

But he who guards the throne of Jove, And grasps the flaming bolt of sacred fire.

I. 3.

Know, with young Ambition bold,

In vain, my Muse, thy dazzled eyes explore,
Distant aims, where wont to soar,
Their burning way the kindling spirits hold.
Heights too arduous wisely shun;
Humbler flights thy wings attend;
For Heaven-taught Genius can alone ascend
Back to her native sky,

And with directed eagle eye

Pervade the lofty spheres, and view the blazing sun.

II. I.

But hark! o'er all the flower enamell'd ground
What music breathes around!

I see, I see the virgin train
Unlock their streams again,

Rolling to many a vale their liquid lapse along,
While at the warbled song

Which holds entranc'd Attention's wakeful ear,
Broke are the magic bands of iron Sleep.
Love, wayward child, oft wont to weep,
In tears his robe to steep

Forgets; and Care that counts his store,
Now thinks each mighty business o'er ;
While sits on ruin'd cities, War's wide-wasting glory,
Ambition, ceasing the proud pile to rear,
And sighs, unfinish'd leaving half her ample story.

II. 2.

Then once more, sweet enthusiast, happy lyre,
Thy soothing solace deign awhile to bring.
I strive to catch the sacred fire,

And wake thee emulous on Granta's plain,
Where all the Muses haunt his hallow'd spring,
And where the Graces shun the sordid train,
Scornful of Heaven-born arts which thee and peace
inspire:

On life's sequester'd scenes they silent wait,

Nor heed the baseless pomp of power,

Nor shining dreams that crowd at Fortune's gate;
But smooth th' inevitable hour

Of pain, which man is doom'd to know,
And teach the mortal mind to glow

With pleasures plac'd beyond the shaft of Fate.

1

II. 3.

But, alas! th' amusive reed

Ill suits the lyre that asks a master's hand,
And fond fancies vainly feed

A breast that life's more active scenes demand.
Sloth ignoble to disclaim

'Tis enough: the lyre unstring. At other feet the victor palm I fling

In Granta's glorious shrine;

Where crown'd with radiance divine,

Her smiles shall nurse the Muse: the Muse shall lift

her fame.

ODE XXV.

THE

POWER OF POETRY.

BY EDW. ROlle, b.d.

1.

WH
HEN tuneful Orpheus strove by moving strains
To sooth the furious hate of rugged swains,
The list ning multitude was pleas'd,

Ev'n Rapine dropt her ravish'd prey,

'Till by the soft oppression seiz'd,

Each savage heard his rage away:

And now o'ercome, in kind consent they move,
And all is harmony, and all is love!

II.

Not so, when Greece's chief by Heav'n inspir'd,
With love of arms each glowing bosom fir'd:
But now the trembling soldier filed,
Regardless of the glorious prize;
And his brave thirst of honor dead,

He durst not meet with hostile eyes;

Whilst glittering shields and swords, war's bright array, Were either worn in vain, or basely thrown away.