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Soon as the hero, by his martial strains,
Like flame, the brave contagion ran;
And catches on from man to man!
With different movements fraught were Maro's lays,
In beauty's, and in glory's bloom,
And rapt into an early tomb !
sung ; and sorrow stole on all, And sighs began to heave, and tears began to fall !
But Rome's high empress felt the greatest smart,
So well the hero's portraiture he drew,
And in description bleed anew.
Transported by harmonious lays,
The mind is melted down, or burns: With joy o'er Windsor forest strays,
Or grieves when Eloisa mourns : Still the same ardor kindles ev'ry line, And our own Pope is now what VIRGIL was, divine.
THE PLEASURE OF POETRY.
BY MR. VANSITTART.
Happy the babe whose natal hour
The Muse propitious deigns to grace,
No cries distort his tender face;
Let statesmen on the sleepless bed
The fate of realms and princes weigh,
They form ideal scenes of sway;
Ye heavy pedants, dull of lore,
Nod o'er the taper's livid flame ;
Still tremble at the robber's name:
Or shudd’ring from the recent dream arise,
Far other joys the Muses show'r,
Benignant, on the aching breast;
To lull the lab’ring heart to rest :
From earthly mists, ye gentle Nine !
Whene'er you purge the visual ray,
And blander smiles the face of day ;
When Boreas sounds his fierce alarms,
And all the green-clad nymphs are fled,
On fragrant May's delicious bed ;
Or on the mountain's airy height
Hear Winter call his howling train,
That now resume their blissful reign:
While smiling Flora binds her Zephyr's brows
More potent than the Sibyl's gold
That led Aeneas' bold emprize,
Your laurel branch, each phantom flies!
The mansions of the glorious dead,
That rise spontaneous to your tread;
Here oft I wander through the gloom,
While pendent fruit the leaves among
Where lurk along the feather'd throng,
And oft I view along the plain
With slow and solemn steps proceed
And high exalt the laurellid head;