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Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand

To drive this pestilence from out the land.
E'en I-least thinking of a thoughtless throng,
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the

wrong,

Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, To fight my course through passion's countless host,

Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way Has lured in turn, and all have led astrayE'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal: Although some kind, censorious friend will say, "What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?"

And every brother rake will smile to see
That miracle, a moralist in me.

No matter when some bard in virtue strong,
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening

song,

Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice; Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,
Why should we call them from their dark abode,
In broad St Giles's or in Tottenham Road?
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare
To scrawl in verse) from Bond Street or the
Square

If things of ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight,
What harm? In spite of every critic elf,
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself;
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try,
And live in prologues though his dramas die.
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall,
And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all.
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times,
Ah! who would take their titles with their
rhymes?

Roscommon! Sheffield with your spirits fled,
No future laurels deck a noble head;
No muse will cheer with renovating smile,
The paralytic puling of Carlisle.
The puny schoolboy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow
worse?

What heterogeneous honours deck the peer!
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer!
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage;
But managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!"
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff.
stretched before me all that remained of courage,
feeling, and a host of passions. He was a
gallant and successful officer: his faults were
the faults of a sailor; as such, Britons will for-
give them. He died like a brave man in a
better cause [he was killed in a duel]; for had
he fallen in like manner on the deck of the
frigate to which he was just appointed, his last
moments would have been held up by his
countrymen as an example to succeeding
heroes.

Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh,
And case his volumes in congenial calf;
Yes! doff that covering, where morocco shines,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines.

With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead
Who daily scribble for your daily bread;
With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous
band.

On "all the talents" vent your venal spleen;
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen.
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew,
And Melville's Mantle prove a blanket too?
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard,
And, peace be with you! 'tis your best reward.
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live;
But now at once your fleeting labours close,
With names of greater note in blest repose.
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade,
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind,
Leave wondering comprehension far behind.*
Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls,
Matilda snivels still, and Hafiz howls;
And Crusca's spirit, rising from the dead,
Revives in Laura, Quiz, and X.Y.Z.t

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, St Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds

applaud!

How ladies read, and literati laud!

If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 'Tis sheer ill-nature-don't the world know best:

Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme
And Capel Lofft declares 'tis quite sublime.
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade!
Swains, quit the plough resign the useless
spade!

Lo, Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far,
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd ove

fate:

Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you,
Bloomfield, why not on brother Nathan too?
Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized;
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased:
And now no boor can seek his last abode,
No common be enclosed, without an ode.§
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smil
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle,
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole,

*This lively little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K-, seems to be a follower of the Della Crusca school, and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities ir rhyme, as times go; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of The Monk.

These are the signatures of various wor thies who figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers.

Capel Lofft, Esq., the Mecenas of shoe. makers, and preface-writer-general to distressed versemen.

§ See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode on the enclosure of Honington Green,

Alike the rustic and mechanic soul.
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song;
So shail the fair your handiwork peruse,
Your sonnets sure shall please, perhaps your
shoes.

May moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill,*
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems-when they pay for coats.
To the famed throng now paid the tribute due,
Neglected genius! let me turn to you.
Come forth, O Campbell! give thy talents scope;
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?
And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past;
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,
Assert thy country's honour and thine own.
What! must deserted Poesy still weep
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep?
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns!
No! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious
brood,

The race who rhyme from folly, or for food,
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,
Who, least affecting, still affect the most;
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel:
Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil. †

Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit;
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the
fruit.

'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his

nest

Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days,
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise;
That strain'd invention, ever on the wing,
Alone impels the modern bard to sing.
'Tis true that all who rhyme-nay, all who write-
Shrink from that fatal word to genius-trite;
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest;
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

And here let Shee and genius find a place,*
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace:
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine,
And trace the poet's or the painter's line;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow,
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow;
While honours, doubly merited, attend

"Why slumbers Gifford?" once was ask'd in The poet's rival, but the painter's friend.

vain!

Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again.
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour:

Are there no fools whose backs demand the Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has

scourge?

Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd,
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed.

Unhappy White! while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,

The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son!

* Vide Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire.

t Gifford, author of the Baviad and Mæviad, the first satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal.

Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic

poem.

Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly Scotland's Scaith; or, the Waes of War.

† Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued,

marked afar,

The clime that nursed the sons of song and war,
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er,
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore.
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands;
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,
And views their remnants with a poet's eye.
Wright! 'twas thy happy lot at once to view
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;
To hail the land of gods and godlike men.

And you, associate bards! who snatch'd to
light t

Those gems too long withheld from modern sight;

Whose mingling taste combined to cull the
wreath

Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone:
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own.

* Mr Shee, anthor of Rhymes on Art, and Elements of Art.

+ Mr. Wright, author of a very beautiful poem entitled Hora Ionicæ.

The translators of the Anthology have since published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to obtain emi

nence,

Let these, or such as these, with just applause Restore the muse's violated laws;

But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime,
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme;
Whose gilded symbols, more adorn'd than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear;
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,
But now, worn down, appear in native brass;
While all his train of hovering sylphs around
Evaporate in similes and sound:

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Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die :
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.*
Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop,
The meanest object of the lowly group,
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void,
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd:†
Let them-but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach:
The native genius with their being given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to
heaven.

And thou, too, Scott, resign to minstrels rude
The wilder slogan of a border feud:
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire;
Enough for genius, if itself inspire!

Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse,
Prolific every spring, be too profuse;
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse,
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse:
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most,
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost;
Let Moore be lewd; let Strangford steal from
Moore,

And swear that Camoëns sang such notes of yore;
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave,
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave;
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine,
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line;
Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest
Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best,
Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain,
Or Common Sense assert her rights again.
But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise,
Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays:
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine,
Demand a hallow'd harp--that harp is thine.
Say, will not Caledonia's annals yield
The glorious record of some nobler field,
Than the wild foray of a plundering clan,
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man?
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food
For outlaw'd Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood?
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native bard,
And be thy praise his first, his best reward!
Yet not with thee alone his name should live,
But own the vast renown a world can give :
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more,
And tell the tale of what she was before;
To future times her faded fame recall,
And save her glory, though his country fall.

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope,
To conquer ages, and with time to cope?
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise,
And other victors fill the applauding skies;
A few brief generations fleet along,

*The neglect of the Botanic Garden is some proof of returning taste.

† Messrs Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co.

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The transient mention of a dubious name! When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast,

Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last; And glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons,
Expert in science, more expert at puns?
Shall these approach the muse? Ah, no! she
flies,

And even spurns the great Seatonian prize;
Though printers condescend the press to soil
With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by Hoyle:
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist,
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.
Ye, who in Granta's honours would surpass,
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass:
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam,
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam.

There Clarke, still striving piteously "to
please,"
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees,
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine,
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind;
Himself a living libel on mankind.*

Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race! †
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace;
So sunk in dulness, and so lost to shame,
That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy
fame!

But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave,
The partial muse delighted loves to lave;
On her green banks a greener wreath is wove,
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove;
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires,
And modern Britons justly praise their sires.t

For me, who, thus unasked, have dared to tell
My country what her sons should know too well,
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage
The host of idiots that infest her age:
No just applause her honour'd name shall lose,
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse.
Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame,
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name!
What Athens was in science, Rome in power,
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour,
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion, to have been-
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's mighty queen:
But Rome decay'd and Athens strew'd the plain,
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main:
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd,
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world.

* This person, was the writer of a poem denominated the Art of Pleasing, as "lucus a non lucendo," containing little pleasantry and less poetry.

"Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a considerable body of Vandals. Gibbon's Decline and Fall, page 83, vol. ii. The Aboriginal Britons, an excellent poem by Richards.

But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate,*
With warning ever scoff'd at, till too late;
To themes less lofty still my lay confine,
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.

Then, hapless Britain, be thy rulers blest,
The senate's oracles, thy people's jest,
Still hear thy motley orators dispense
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense,
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit,
And old dame Portland fills the place of Pitt.

Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; And Afric's coast, and Calpe's adverse height,† And Stamboul's minarets, must greet my sight: Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime, t

Where Kaff§ is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows sublime.

But should I back return, no letter'd rage
Shall drag my common-place book on the stage.
Let vain Valentia || rival luckless Carr,
And equal him whose work he sought to mar:
Let Aberdeen and Elgin¶ still pursue
The shade of fame through regions of virtù ;
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks,
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques;
And make their grand saloons a general mart
For all the mutilated blocks of art.
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell,

* Cassandra was the daughter of Priam, King of Troy. Apollo bestowed on her the gift of prophecy; but added to it the curse that no one should believe her predictions.

+ Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants.

§ Mount Caucasus.

Lord Valentia.

Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias! "Credat Judæus !

| I leave topography to classic Gell ;*
And, quite content, no more shall interpose
To stun mankind with poesy or prose.

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career,
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear;
This thing of rhyme, I ne'er disdain'd to own--
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown:
My voice was heard again, though not so loud;
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd;
And now at once I tear the veil away :-
Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House,
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse,
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too "are penetrable stuff:"
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would
fall

From lips that now may seem imbued with gall;
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my
eyes;

But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth,

I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me;
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss:
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I too can hunt a poetaster down;
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others
say:

This let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.

* Mr Gell, author of Topography of Troy and Ithaca.

POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION.

I have been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and wellbeloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly ribaldry:

"Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ:"

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheek saith, "An' I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him dd ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia.

My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary anthropophagus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and slandering," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking?" I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion; nor has he hence sustained any injury: what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there “ persons of honour and wit about " but am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal; those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed: I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas, "the age of chivalry is over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days.

town;

There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (Subaudi Esquire), a Sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much

better company than he has been accustomed to meet. He is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltlesɛ of having heard his name till coupled with the Satirist. He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the Editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman, God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Mæcenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not: he was one of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and, in the words of Scott, I wish

"To all and each a fair good night,

And rosy dreams and slumbers light."

THE CURSE OF MINERVA.*

WRITTEN 1811,- PUBLISHED 1828.
"Pallas, te hoc vulnere, Pallas

Immolat, et pœnam scelerato ex sanguine sumit."-Æneid.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows.
On old Egina's rock and Hydra's isle

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance;
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of
heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve his palest beam he cast,
When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's † latest day;
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes;
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before;
But ere he sank below Citharon's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd-the spirit fled;
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly,
Who lived and died as none can live or die.

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But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign:
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form ;
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams
play,

There the white column greets her grateful ray;
And bright around, with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide,
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm:
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye;
And dull were his that passed them heedless by

Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold,
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile.

*

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane,
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main,
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore,
Whose arts and arms but live in poet's lore;
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan,
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man,
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease,
And glory knew no clime beyond her Greece!

Hours rolled along, and Dian's orb on high
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky;
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god;
But chiefly, Pallas, thine; when Hecate's glare,
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead.
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace
The wreck of Greece recorded of her

*

race,

The Parthenon, or temple of Minerva.

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