Bless'd in her offspring! Seat of eloquence,
Of arms and reason; patriot-virtue's seat!O
Did the sun thither dart uncommon rays!
Did some presiding genius hover o'er
That animated soil with brooding wings!
The sad reverse might start a gentle tear.
Go, search for Athens; her deserted ports
Enter, a noiseless solitary shore,

Where commerce crouded the Piraean strand.
Trace her dark streets, her wall-embarrass'd shrines ;
And pensive wonder, where her glories beam'd.
Where are her orators, her sages, now?—

Shatter'd her mould'ring arcs, her tow'rs in dust,
But far less ruin'd, than her soul decay'd.
The stone, inscrib'd to Socrates, debas'd
To prop a reeling cot.—Minerva's dome
Possess'd by those, who never kiss'd her shield.
-Upon the mount where old Musaeus sung,
Sits the gruff turban'd captain, and exacts
Harsh tribute !—In the grove, where Plato taught
His polish'd strain sublime, a stupid Turk
Is preaching ignorance and Mahomet.
(Where He, whom only dauntless Philip fear'd,
Shook the astonish'd throng;—here holy Paul
Harangu'd the Pagan multitude, and brought

-9°

To staring human wisdom news from heav'n.)

Turn next to Rome:-Is that the clime, the place, Where, on his laurel'd throne, with tuneful choirs Of arts surrounded, great Augustus reign'd?

1

And (greater far) the venerable band
Of elder heroes (fame's eternal theme!)
In splendid huts, and noble poverty,

100

Brave for their country liv'd, and fought, and died.

Heav'n! what firm Souls! who knew not gold had price,

Nor perfidy, nor baseness knew.—They, they,
The demi-gods of Rome! whose master voice,
Whose awe-commanding eye, more terror struck,_
Than rods, and lictors, and Praetorian bands.
Could the pure crimson tide, the noblest blood
In all the world, to such pollution turn:
Like Jordan's river, pouring his clear flood
Into the black Asphaltus' slimy lake?

Patrons of wit, and victors of mankind,

110

Bards, warriors, worthies, (revolution strange!)
Are pimps, and fidlers, mountebanks, and monks.
In Tully's hive, rich magazine of sweets!
The lazy drones are buzzing, or asleep.

But we forgive the living for the dead;
Indebted more to Rome than we can pay :
Of a long dearth prophetic, she laid in
A feast for ages.-O thou banquet nice!
Where the soul riots with secure excess.
What heart-felt bliss! what pleasure-winged hours
Transported owe we to her letter'd sons !—
We, by their favor, Tyber's banks enjoy,

120

Their temples trace, and share their noble games; Enter the crowded theatre at will;

σ

σ

March to the forum; hear the consul plead ;
Are present in the thund'ring Capitol
When Tully speaks. At softer hours, attend
Harmonious Virgil to his Mantuan farm,
Or Baia's shore :-how often drink his strains,/30
Rural, or epic, sweet!-how often rove
With Horace, bard and moralist benign! e
With happy Horace rove, in fragrant paths
Of myrtle bowers, by Tivoli's cascade.

Hail, precious pages! that amuse and teach,
Exalt the genius, and improve the breast.
Ye sage historians, all your stores unfold,
Reach your clear steady mirror;-in that glass
The forms of good and ill are well pourtray'd.

But chiefly thou, supreme Philosophy! 140
Shed thy blest influence; with thy train appear
Of graces mild: far be the Stoic boast,
The Cynic's snarl, and churlish pedantry.
Bright visitant, if not too high my wish,
Come in the lovely dress you wore, a guest.
At Plato's table; or in studious walks,
In green Frescati's academic groves,
The Roman feasting his selected friends.

Tamer of pride! at thy serene rebuke See crouching insolence, spleen, and revenge 1500

Before thy shining taper disappear.

Tutor of human life! auspicious guide! Vluy

Whose faithful clue unravels ev'ry maze :

Whose skill can disengage the tangled thorn,

And smooth the rock to down! whose magic powers Controul each storm, and bid the roar be still.

EPISTLE XIX.

то

CHARLES PRATT, ESQ.

(Now Earl Camden.)

WRITTEN IN MDCCXLIII.

By the Same.

FROM friendship's cradle up the verdant paths
Of Youth, life's jolly spring; and now sublim'd
To its full manhood and meridian strength,
Her latest stage, (for friendship ever hale
Knows not old age, diseases, and decay,
But burning keeps her sacred fire, 'till death's
Cold hand extinguish)—At this spot, this point,
Here, Pratt, we social meet, and gaze about,
And look back to the scenes our pastime trod
In nature's morning, when the gamesome hours
Had sliding feet, and laugh'd themselves away.
Luxurious season! vital prime! where Thames
Flows by Etona's walls, and cheerful sees
Her sons wide swarming; and where sedgy Cam
Bathes with slow pace his academic grove,