Approach: But aweful! Lo th' Egerian grott,
Where, nobly-penfive, ST. JOHN fate and thought;
Where British fighs from dying WYNDHAM ftole,
And the bright flame was fhot thro' MARCHMONT's foul.
Let fuch, fuch only, tread this facred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
By the late JAMES THOMSON, Efq; Author of the Seasons.
AIL, ever-pleafing Solitude !
Companion of the wife and good!
I good!,
But, from whofe holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools, and villains, fly.
Oh how I love with thee to walk!
And liften to thy whifper'd talk;
Which innocence, and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with eafe,
And still in every shape you please ;
Now rapt in fome myfterious dream,.
A lone philofopher you feem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you, fweep the vaulted fky,
And nature triumphs in your eye:
Then ftrait again you court the shade,
And pining hang the penfive head.
A fhepherd next you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten ftrain.
A lover now with all the grace
Of that sweet paffion in your face!
Then, foft-divided, you affume
The gentle-looking H-d's bloom,
As, with her PHILOMELA, fhe,
(Her PHILOMELA fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And ftill in every fhape you please.
Thine is th' unbounded breath of morn,
Juft as the dew-bent rofe is born;
And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland's dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening fcenes decay,
And the faint landskip fwims away,
Thine is the doubtful dear decline,
And that beft hour of mufing thine.
Defcending angels blefs thy train,.
The virtues of the fage, and fwain ;
Plain Innocence in white array'd,
And Contemplation rears the head:
Religion, with her awful brow,
And rapt URANIA waits on you.
Oh, let me pierce thy fecret cell!
And in thy deep recesses dwell:
Who hymn your God amid the fecret grove;
Ye unfeen beings to my harp repair,
And raise majestick strains, or melt in love.
Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid?
With what foft woe they thrill the lover's heart?
Sure from the hand of fome unhappy maid
Who dy'd of love, these sweet complainings part.
* Eolus's Harp is a musical inftrument, which plays with the wind, invented by Mr. Ofwald; its properties are fully defcribed in the Castle of Indolence.
But hark! that ftrain was of a graver tone,
On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he the Sacred Bard! * who fat alone,
In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.
IV.
Such was the fong which Zion's children fung,
When by Euphrates' ftream they made their plaint:
And to fuch fadly folemn notes are ftrung
Angelick harps, to footh a dying faint.
Methinks I hear the full celeftial choir,
Thro' heaven's high dome their aweful anthem raise; Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To fwell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise.
Let me, ye wand'ring spirits of the wind,
Who as wild Fancy prompts you touch the ftring,
Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,
For 'till you cease, my Muse forgets to fing.
On the Report of a WOODEN BRIDGE to be built at Westminster.
Y Rufus' hall, where Thames polluted flows,
Provok'd, the Genius of the river rose,
And thus exclaim'd- "Have I, ye British fwains,
"Have I, for ages, lav'd your fertile plains?
"Given herds, and flocks, and villages increase,
"And fed a richer than the Golden Fleece?
"Have I, ye merchants, with each fwelling tide,
"Pour'd Africk's treasure in, and India's pride?
"Lent you the fruit of every nation's toil?
"Made every climate your's, and every foil?
"Yet pilfer'd from the poor, by gaming base,
"Yet must a Wooden Bridge my waves difgrace?
"Tell not to foreign ftreams the fhameful tale,
"And be it publish'd in no Gallick vale."
He faid; and plunging to his crystal dome,
White o'er his head the circling waters foam.
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