POE TR Y.

ODE for the NEW YEAR, 1787.

By T. WARTON, Efq. Peet-Laureat.

In fome proud caftle's high-arch'd hall,
To grace romantic glory's genial rites:
Affociate of the gorgeous feftival,

The Minstrel ftruck his kindred string,
And told of many a steel-clad king,
Who to the turney train'd his hardy knights;
Or bore the radiant redcross shield
Mid the bold peers of Salem's field;
Who travers'd pagan climes to quell
The wifard foe's terrific fpell;
In rude affrays untaught to fear
The Saracen's gigantic fpear-

The liftening champions felt the fabling rhime

With fairy trappings fraught, and fhook their plumes fublime.

II.

Such were the themes of regal praise

Dear to the Bard of elder days;
The fongs, to favage virtue dear,
That won of yore the public ear!
Ere Polity, fedate and fage,

Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage,
Had ftemm'd the torrent of eternal ftrife,
And charm'd to rest an unrelenting age.-
No more, in formidable state,

The Castle shuts its thundering gate;
New colours fuit the scenes of foften'd life;

No

No more, beftriding barbed ftecds,
Adventurous Valour idly bleeds:
And now the Bard in alter'd tones,
A theme of worthier triumph owns ;
By focial imagery beguil❜d,

He moulds his harp to manners mild;
Nor longer weaves the wreath of war alone,

Nor hails the hoftile forms that grac'd the Gothic Throne.

III.

And now he tunes his plaufive lay
To Kings, who plant the civic bay;
Who choose the patriot fovereign's part,
Diffufing commerce, peace, and art;
Who fpread the virtuous pattern wide,
And triumph in a nation's pride:

Who feek coy Science in her cloister'd nook,
Where Thames, yet rural, rolls an artless tide;
Who love to view the vale divine,
Where revel Nature and the Nine,
And clustering towers the tufted grove o’erlook ;
To Kings, who rule a filial land,

Who claim a People's vows and pray'rs,
Should Treafon arm the weakest hand!
To Thefe, his heart-felt praise he bears,
And with new rapture haftes to greet
This feftal morn, that longs to meet,
With luckieft aufpices, the laughing fpring;
And opes her glad career, with bleflings on her wing!

ODE on his MAJESTY's Birth-Day, June 4, 1787.

By T. WARTON, Efq. Poet-Laureat.

Ere Science, ftruggling oft in vain,
Had dar'd to break her Gothic chain,

Victorious Edward gave the vernal bough

Of Britain's bay to bloom on Chaucer's brow:
Fir'd with the gift, he chang'd to founds fublime
His Norman minstrelfy's difcordant chime;
In tones majestic hence he told
The banquet of Cambufcan bold;
And oft he fung (howe'er the rhyme
Has molder'd to the touch of time)

His

His martial mafter's knightly board,
And Arthur's ancient rites reftor'd;

The prince in fable fteel that fternly frown'd,

And Gallia's captive king, and Creffy's wreath renown'd.

II.

Won from the fhepherd's fimple meed,

The whispers wild of Mulla's reed,
Sage Spenfer wak'd his lofty lay
To grace Eliza's golden fway:

O'er the proud theme new luftre to diffuse,
He chose the gorgeous allegoric Mufe,
And call'd to life old Uther's elfin tale,
And rov'd thro' many a necromantic vale,
Pourtraying chiefs that knew to tame
The goblin's ire, the dragon's flame,
To pierce the dark enchanted hall,
Where Virtue fate in lonely thrall.
From fabling Fancy's inmoft ftore
A rich romantic robe he bore;
A veil with vifionary trappings hung,
And o'er his virgin-queen the fairy texture flung.

III.

At length the matchlefs Dryden came,
To light the Mufes' clearer flame;
To lofty numbers grace to lend,
And ftrength with melody to blend;

To triumph in the bold career of fong,
And roll th' unwearied energy along.

Does the mean incenfe of promifcuous praife,
Does fervile fear, difgrace his regal bays?
I fpurn his panegyric ftrings,

His partial homage, tun'd to kings!

Be mine, to catch his manlier chord,

That paints th' impaffion'd Perfian lord,

By glory fir'd, to pity fu'd,

Rouz'd to revenge, by love fubdu'd;

And ftill, with transport new, the ftrains to trace

That chant the Theban pair, and Tancred's deadly vase.

IV.

Had these bleft Bards been call'd, to pay

The vows of this aufpicious day,

Each had confefs'd a fairer throne,
A mightier fovereign, than his own!
Chaucer had bade his hero-monarch yield
The fame of Agincourt's triumphal field
VOL. XXIX.

M

Το

To peaceful prowess, and the conqueft's calm,
That braid the fceptre with the patriot's palm:
His chaplets of fantastic bloom,

His colourings, warm from Fiction's loom,
Spenfer had caft in scorn away,

And deck'd with truth alone the lay;
All real here the Bard had feen
The glories of his pictur'd Queen!

The tuneful Dryden had not flatter'd here,

His lyre had blameless been, his tribute all fincere!

ODE to a LADY going abroad.-From vol. 3d of THE LOUNGER,

And all my pray'rs, my tears, are vain ;
Nor fhall I know one hour's repose,
Till Delia bless thefe eyes again.

Companion of the wretched, come,

Fair Hope! and dwell with me a while;
Thy heavenly prefence gilds the gloom,
While happier fcenes in profpect smile.

Oh! who can tell what Time may do
How all my forrows yet may end ?
Can the reject a love fo true?

Can Delia e'er forfake her friend

Unkind and rude the thorn is feen,
No fign of future sweetness shows
But time calls forth its lovely green,
And spreads the blushes of the rose.
Then come, fair Hope, and whisper peace,
And keep the happy fcenes in view,
When all thefe cares and fears fhall cease,
And Delia blefs a love fo true.

II.

Hope, fweet deceiver, ftill believ'd,
In mercy fent to foothe our care:

Oh! tell me, am I now deceiv'd,

And wilt thou leave me to despair?

Then hear, ye Powers, my earnest pray'r,
This pang unutterable fave;

Let me not live to know defpair,
But give me quiet in the grave!