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And fain wou'd push the heavenly stranger back;
She loaths the cranny which admits the day;
Confus'd, afraid of the intruding guest;
Diurb'd, unwilling to receive the beam,
Which to herself her native darkness fhews.
The effort rude to quench the cheering flame
Was mine, and e'en on Stella cou'd I gaze
With fullen envy, and admiring pride,
Till, doubly rous'd by Montagu, the pair
Confpire to clear my dull, imprifon'd fenfe,
And chafe the mifts which dimm'd my visual beam.
Oft as I trod my native wilds alone,

Strong gufts of thought wou'd rife, but rife to die;
The portals of the fwelling foul ne'er op'd
By liberal converfe, rude ideas strove

Awhile for vent, but found it not, and died.

Thus ruft the mind's best powers. Yon tarry orbs,
Majestic ocean, flowery vales, gay groves,
Eye-wafting lawns, and heaven-attempting hills,
Which bound th' horizon, and which curb the view;
All thofe, with beauteous imagery, awak'd
My ravish'd foul to extacy untaught,
To all the tranfport the rapt fenfe can bear;
But all expir'd, for want of powers to speak;
All perish'd in the mind as foon as born,
Eras'd more quick than cyphers on the shore,
O'er which the cruel waves, unheedful, roll.

Such timid rapture as young Edwin feiz'd,
When his lone footsteps on the fage obtrude,
Whose noble precept charm'd his wond'ring ear,
Such rapture fill'd Lactilla's vacant foul,
When the bright moralift, in foftnefs dreft,
Opes all the glories of the mental world,
Deigns to direct the infant thought, to prune
The budding fentiment, uprear the stalk
Of feeble fancy, bid idea live,

Woo the abstracted fpirit from its cares,

And gently guide her to the fcenes of peace.

Mine was that balm, and mine the grateful heart,

Which breathes its thanks in rough, but timid strains.

SONNET to LAURA.

[From Mr. PoLWHELE's Pictures from Nature, in Nineteen Sonnets.]

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Befides this great advantage-if in debt,
You'll have with creditors no tête-à-tête :

So leave the bull-dog bailiffs all behind;
Who hunt you, with what nose they may,
Must hunt for needles in a stack of hay.

The SOUTH SEA ISLANDERS COMPASSIONATED, but chiefly OMAI.

[From the "Tafk," in the Second Volume of Mr. COWPER's Poems.]

E

V'N the favor'd ifles

So lately found, although the conftant fun
Cheer all their feafons with a grateful fmile,
Can boast but little virtue; and inert
Through plenty, lofe in morals what they gain
In manners, victims of luxurious cafe.
Thefe therefore I can pity, placed remote
From all that fcience traces, art invents,
Or inspiration teaches; and inclosed
In boundless oceans never to be pafs'd
By navigators uninformed as they,

Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again.
But far beyond the reft, and with most cause,
Thee, gentle favage*, whom no love of thee
Or thine, but curiofity perhaps,

Or elfe vain-glory, prompted us to draw
Forth from thy native bow'rs, to fhow thee here
With what fuperior skill we can abuse
The gifts of Providence, and fquander life.
The dream is paft. And thou haft found again

Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,

And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But haft thou found

Their former charms? And having feen our state,

Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp

Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,
And heard our mufic; are thy fimple friends,
Thy fimple fare, and all thy plain delights,
As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys
Loft nothing by comparison with ours?
Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rude
And ignorant, except of outward show)
I cannot think thee yet fo dull of heart
And spiritless, as never to regret

Sweets tasted here, and left as foon as known.
Methinks I fee thee ftraying on the beach,
And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot,

• Omai.

That genius arm'd with high perfuafion's power-
The power of human conduct! awful trust!
Yet haply thine! And O if doom'd to guide,
Bleft arbiter of good, the moral scale;
Whether thy care to vindicate the rights
Of outrag'd innocence, and crush the fiends
That weave the Belial-artifice; or stem
In evil hour, corruption's torrent tide;
Or fhine the facred delegate of heav'n;-
O be thy study to impress on all

The features of thy honeft worth, and gain
The fame of Virtue! Hence Perfuafion draws
New dignity and grace! Attention hangs
Enamour'd on the mufic of a voice
Infpir'd by genuine probity, and breath'd
From all-effential goodness! Such the charms
Of Virtue!-Yet her femblance, uninform'd
By the warm heart, how vain! O feed the fires
That glow in generous bofoms! Be thy care
To give each exemplary deed the force
Of truth, and plain fincerity of foul!
For there's an energy in confcious worth-
A noble daring, (but to Virtue's race

Unknown) that kindles thro' the crowd, the flame
Of emulative merit; fpreads around
A kindred feeling; and impels the mind
To all that high activity, the fource
Of happiest execution. Such the fire

Of other days, while Greece furvey'd her fons
Crown'd, awful victors, with the double wreath
Of Eloquence and Virtue! Lo more pure
In redolence and bloom, to Glory's orb
'The awaken'd genius of thy country waves
That wreath and warm with rapture as he views
Its heav'n-born luftre-"Be it thine (he cries)
"Aufpicious youth (to nobler deeds foredoom'd)
"To merit all the renovated rays;

"And thus, reflected by thy brighter brows,
Beyond ev'n Grecia's, be thy Albion's fame!"

ODE on his MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY..

[By the Rev. THOMAS WARTON, B. D. Poet-Laureat.]

A

I.

MID the thunder of the war,

True glory guides no echoing ear;
Nor bids the fword her bays bequeath,
Nor ftains with blood her brightest wreath;

No plumed hofts her tranquil triumphs own;
Nor fpoils of murder'd multitudes the brings,
To fwell the state of her di inguifh'd kings,
And deck her chofen throne.

On that fair throne to Britain dear,
With the flow'ring olive twin'd,
High she hangs the hero's spear,

And there with all the palms of peace combin'd,
Her unpolluted hands the milder trophy rear.
To kings like thefe her genuine theme,

The Mufe a blameless homage pays;
To George of kings like thefe fupreme,
She wishes honour'd length of days,
Nor prostitutes the tribute of her lays.

II.

'Tis his to bid neglected genius glow, And teach the regal bounty how to flow. His tutelary fceptre's fway,

The vindicated arts obey,

And hail their patron king;

'Tis his, to judgment's fteady line
Their flights fantaftic to confine,

And yet expand their wing;
The fleeting forms of fashion to restrain,
And bind capricious Tafte in Truth's eternal chain,
Sculpture, licentious now no more,

For Greece her great example takes,

With Nature's warmth the marble wakes,
And fpurns the toys of modern lore:
In native beauty fimply plann'd,

Corinth thy tufted thatts afcend;
The Graces guide the painter's hand,
His magic mimicry to blend.

III.

While fuch the gifts his reign bestows,

Amid the proud difplay,

Thofe gems around the throne he throws
That fhed a fofter ray :

While from the fummits of fublime renown
He wafts his favour's univerfal gale,
With those sweet flowers he binds a crown
That bloom in Virtue's humble vale:
With rich munificence, the nuptial tye
Unbroken he combines :
Confpicuous, in a nation's eye,
The facred pattern fhines!

Fair Science to reform, reward, and raise,
To fpread the luftre of domeftic praife;

To

To fofter Emulation's holy flame
To build Society's majestic frame;
Mankind to polifh and to teach,
Be this the monarch's aim;
Above Ambition's giant-reach,

The monarch's meed to claim.

[247]

HITCHIN CONVENT. A Tale.

[From the late Mr. LOVIBOND's Poems.]

WI

HERE Hitchin's gentle current glides,
An ancient convent stands,

Sacred to prayer and holy rites
Ordain'd by pious hands.

Here monks of faintly Benedi&t
Their nightly vigils kept,
And lofty anthems fhook the choir
At hours when mortals flept.

But Harry's wide reforming hand
That facred order wounded;
He fpoke-from forth their hallow'd walls
The friars fled confounded.

Then wicked laymen ent'ring in,
Thofe cloisters/fair prophan'd;
Now Riot loud ufurps the feat
Where bright Devotion reign'd.

Ev'n to the chapel's facred roof,
Its echoing vaults along,

Refounds the flute, and fprightly dance,
And hymeneal fong.

Yet Fame reports, that monkish shades
At midnight never fail

To haunt the manfions once their own,

And tread its cloisters pale.

One night, more prying than the reft,
It chanc'd a friar came,

And enter'd where on beds of down
Repos'd each gentle dame.

Here, foftening midnight's raven gloom,

Lay Re, blufhing maid; There, wrapt in folds of cypress lawn

Her virtuous aunt was laid.

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