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O Granta! on thy happy plain
Still may these Attic glories reign:
Still mayst thou keep thy wonted state
In unaffected grandeur great;

Great as at this illustrious hour,

When He, whom George's well weigh'd choice
And Albion's general voice

Have lifted to the fairest heights of power,
When He appears, and deigns to shine
The leader of thy learned line;

And bids the verdure of thy olive bough
Mid all his civic chaplets twine,

And add fresh glories to his honour'd brow.

Haste then, and amply o'er his head
The graceful foliage spread.

[Fame,

Meanwhile the Muse shall snatch the trump of And lift her swelling accents high,

To tell the world that Pelham's name Is dear to Learning as to Liberty.

ODE VI.

TO INDEPENDENCY.

HERE, on my native shore reclined,
While Silence rules this midnight hour,
I woo thee, goddess. On my musing mind
Descend, propitious Power!

And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside:
Bid my calm'd soul with all thy influence shine;
As yon chaste orb along this ample tide

Draws the long lustre of her silver line, [blows, While the hush'd breeze its last weak whisper And lulls old Humber to his deep repose.

Come to thy votary's ardent prayer,
In all thy graceful plainness dress'd:
No knot confines thy waving hair,
No zone thy floating vest;

Unsullied Honour decks thine open brow,
And Candour brightens in thy modest eye;
Thy blush is warm Content's etherial glow;
Thy smile is Peace; thy step is Liberty:
Thou scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand,
As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.

As now o'er this lone beach I stray, The favourite swain' oft stole along, And artless wove his Dorian lay, Far from the busy throng. [string, Thou heard'st him, Goddess, strike the tender And badest his soul with bolder passions move: Soon these responsive shores forgot to ring With Beauty's praise, or plaint of slighted Love; To loftier flights his daring genius rose,

And led the war 'gainst thine and Freedom's foes.

Pointed with Satire's keenest steel,
The shafts of Wit he darts around;

2

E'en mitred Dulness learns to feel,
And shrinks beneath the wound.

In awful poverty his honest Muse

Walks forth vindictive through a venal land:
In vain Corruption sheds her golden dews,
In vain Oppression lifts her iron hand;

He scorns them both, and, arm'd with Truth alone,
Bids Lust and Folly tremble on the throne.

1 Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston-upon-Hull in 1620. ? See The Rehearsal Transposed, and an account of the effect of that satire, in the Biographia Britannica, art. Marvell,

Behold, like him, immortal Maid,
The Muses' vestal fires I bring:

Here at thy feet the sparks I spread:
Propitious wave thy wing,

And fan them to that dazzling blaze of song,
Which glares tremendous on the sons of Pride.
But, hark! methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue!
In distant trills it echoes o'er the tide ;
Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free,
As swells the lark's meridian ecstasy.

Fond youth! to Marvell's patriot fame Thy humble breast must ne'er aspire. Yet nourish still the lambent flame; Still strike thy blameless lyre: Led by the moral Muse, securely rove; And all the vernal sweets thy vacant youth Can cull from busy Fancy's fairy grove, Oh, hang their foliage round the fane of Truth: To arts like these devote thy tuneful toil, And meet its fair reward in D'Arcy's smile.

"Tis he, my son, alone shall cheer
Thy sickening soul; at that sad hour,
When o'er a much loved parent's bier,
Thy duteous sorrows shower:

At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline,
When pining Care leads on her pallid train,
And sees thee, like the weak and widow'd vine,
Winding thy blasted tendrils o'er the plain:
At that sad hour shall D'Arcy lend his aid,
And raise with Friendship's arm thy drooping head.

E 2

This fragrant wreath, the Muse's meed,
That bloom'd those vocal shades among,
Where never Flattery dared to tread,
Or Interest's servile throng;

Receive, thou favour'd son, at my command,
And keep with sacred care for D'Arcy's brow:
Tell him 'twas wove by my immortal hand,
I breathed on every flower a purer glow;
Say, for thy sake I send the gift divine
To him who calls thee his, yet makes thee mine.'

ODE VII.

TO A FRIEND.

AH! cease this kind persuasive strain,
Which, when it flows from Friendship's
However weak, however vain,

[tongue,
O'erpowers beyond the siren's song:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me muse upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these pensive sweets?
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand supply
A charm so suited to my mind
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill

Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill,

While through the west, where sinks the crim

son day,

[banners gray?

Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her

Say, from Affliction's various source
Do none but turbid waters flow?
And cannot Fancy clear their course?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.
Say, mid that grove, in lovelorn state,
While yon poor ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all that meets the shepherd's ear
Inspired by anguish and despair?

Ah! no; fair Fancy rules the song:
She swells her throat; she guides her tongue;
She bids the waving aspen spray
Quiver in cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed osiers bow,
And rustle round the lake below,

To suit the tenor of her gurgling sighs,

And sooth her throbbing breast with solemn sympathies.

To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares;
Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears;

To thee yon abbey dank and lone,
Where ivy chains each mouldering stone
That nods o'er many a martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.

Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander through the cloisters drear,
Could rove each desolated isle,

Though midnight thunders shook the pile;
And dauntless view, or seem to view,
(As faintly flash the lightnings blue)

Thin shivering ghosts from yawning charnels

throng,

[along.

And glance with silent sweep the shaggy vaults

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