Where the smooth chissel all its force has shown,
And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone.
In solemn silence, a majestic band,

Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls, stand;
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown;

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued, Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdued.

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show the immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight;

Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow,
From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss'd,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost.

Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;
Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Muse.

How has kind Heav'n adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand; But what avail her unexhausted stores,

Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores,
With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,
The smiles of Nature and the charms of Art,
While proud Oppression in her valleys reigns,
And Tyranny usurps her happy plains?

The
poor inhabitant beholds in vain,
The reddening orange and the swelling grain;
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines;

Starves, in the midst of Nature's bounty curs'd, And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

Oh, Liberty! thou goddess heavenly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; Eased of her load Subjection grows more light, And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou makest the gloomy face of Nature gay, Givest beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess! thee Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil; We envy not the warmer clime that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine; 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.

Others with towering piles may please the sight, And in their proud aspiring domes delight, A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvass give, Or teach their animated rocks to live; 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state; To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbours' prayer.

The Dane and Swede, roused up by fierce alarms,
Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms;
Soon as her fleets appear their terrors cease,
And all the Northern world lies hush'd in peace.
The' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread
Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head,
And fain her godlike sons would disunite,
By foreign gold, or by domestic spite;
But strives in vain to conquer or divide,

Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsels guide.
Fired with the name which I so oft have found
The distant climes and different tongues resound,
I bridle in my struggling Muse, with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.

But I've already` troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song:
My humble verse demands a softer theme,
A painted meadow or a purling stream;
Unfit for heroes, whom immortal lays,

And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise,

MISCELLANIES.

A

SONG, FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY,

AT OXFORD.

CECILIA! whose exalted hymns
With joy and wonder fill the bless'd,
In choirs of warbling seraphims

Known and distinguish'd from the rest;
Attend, harmonious Saint! and see

Thy vocal sons of Harmony;

Attend, harmonious Saint! and hear our prayers;
Enliven all our earthly airs,

And as thou sing'st thy God, teach us to sing of thee:
Tune every string and every tongue;
Be thou the Muse and subject of our song.

Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim,

Employ the echo in her name.

Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise,
At bright Cecilia's name, their lays!
The organ labours in her praise.
Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace;
From every voice the tuneful accents fly;
In soaring trebles now it rises high,
And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base.

Cecilia's name through all the notes we sing,
The work of every skilful tongue,

The sound of every trembling string,
The sound and triumph of our song.
For ever consecrate the day
To music and Cecilia;

Music! the greatest good that mortals know,
And all of Heaven we have below.
Music can noble hints impart,
Engender fury, kindle love,

And

With unsuspected eloquence can move
manage all the man with secret art.
When Orpheus strikes the trembling lyre,
The streams stand still, the stones admire;
The listening savages advance,

The wolf and lamb around him trip,
The bears in awkward measures leap,
And tigers mingle in the dance:

The moving woods attended as he play'd,
And Rhodope was left without a shade.

Music religious heats inspires;

It wakes the soul and lifts it high, And wings it with sublime desires, And fits it to bespeak the Deity. The' Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue, And seems well pleased, and courted with a song. Soft moving sounds and heavenly airs [prayers. Give force to every word, and recommend cur When time itself shall be no more, And all things in confusion hurl'd, Music shall then exert its power,

And sound survive the ruins of the world: