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BOADICEA:

AN ODE.

In

When the British warrior-queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Ev'ry burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.

" Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

“Rome shall perish-write that word

In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

“ Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

“ Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

" Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines,
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines.)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assur'd.

peace upon her sloping sides matur'd.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration lab'ring in her womb,
She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapors rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring skies,
While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day,
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what pow'rs of song,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man,
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an uninform’d and idle mass;
Without a soil t'invite the tiller's care,
Or blade, that might redeem it from despair.

Yet time at lengih (what will not time achieve ?)
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,
O charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets!
The self-same gale, that wafts the fragrance rounri
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound :
Again the mountain feels thi' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor draws,
Who write in blood the merits of your cause,
Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence
Glory your air, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Eina's emblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires !

Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain And tells you where ye have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbors', and their own Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn And Folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her train Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again, And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,)
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the gen'ral spoil,

Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok'd upon the plain,
And the Sun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conqu'ror's part;

And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.

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THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

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What are ye, monarchs, laurel’d heroes, say, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
But Ætnas of the susl’ring world ye sway? In scarlet manile warm, and velvet cap,
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, "Tis now become a bist’ry little known,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; That once we call'd the pası'ral house our own.
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Still outlives many a storm, that has eflac'd
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; A thousand other themes less deeply tracd.
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won; Thy inoming bounties ere I left my home, Where to succeed is not to be undone;

The biscuit, or confectionary plum; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain,

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd

All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant Row of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughend by those cataracts and breaks,
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTIIER'S PICTURE That humor interpos'd too ofien makes;
OUT OF NORFOLK,

All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though liule notic'd here.
The same, that of in childhood solac'd me;

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy sears away!" The violet, the pink, and jessamine, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (Blest be the art that can immorialize,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

Wouldst sofily speak, and stroke my head, and smile;) To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. Could those few pleasant days again appear, Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? () welcome guest, though unexpected here! I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I mighi. Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

But no—what here we call our life is such, I will obey, not willingly alone,

So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, But gladly, as the precept were her own:

That I should ill requite thee to constrain And, while that face renews my filial grief, Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

(The storins all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) A momentary dream that thou art she.

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? While airs impregnated with incense play Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss- So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

" Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"* I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day,

And thy lov'd consort on the dang’rous tide I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away, Of life long since has anchord by thy side. And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

Always from port withheld, always distress'd— But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, And day by day some current's thwarting force The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth And, disappointed still, was sull deceiv'd.

From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth ; By expectation ev'ry day beguild,

But higher far my proud pretensions riseDupe of 10-morrow even from a child.

The son of parents pass'd into the skies. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went And now, farewell—Time unrevok'd has run Till, all my stock of infant-sorrow spent,

His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ;

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry Nuor; Without the sin of violating thine ;
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,

* Garth.

And, while the wings of Fancy still are frce, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his thestThyself remov’d, thy pow'r to soothe me left.

But will sincerity susfice ?
It is indeed above all price,

And must be made the basis;
But ev'ry virtue of the soul
Must constitute the charming whole,

All shining in their places.

FRIENDSHIP.

A fretful temper will divide
The closest knot that may be tied,

By ceaseless sharp corrosion; A temper passionate and fierce May suddenly your joys disperse

At one immense explosion.

Wuat virtue, or what mental grace, But men unqualified and base

Will boast it their possession ? Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart,

And dullness, of discretion. If every polish'd gem we find Illuminating heart or mind,

Provoke to imitation ;
No wonder friendship does the same,
That jewel of the purest flame,

Or rather constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretend
The requisites that form a friend,

A real and a sound one;
Nor any fool, he would deceive,
But prove as ready to believe,

And dream that he had found one.

In vain the talkative unite
In hopes of permanent delight-

The secret just committed,
Forgetting its important weight,
They drop through mere desire to prate,

And by themselves outwitted.

How bright soe'er the prospect seems,
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams

If envy chance to creep in;
An envious man, if you succeed,
May prove a Jang'rous foe indeed,

But not a friend worth keeping.

As envy pines at good possess'd,
So jealousy looks forth distress'd

On good, that seems approaching; And, if success his steps attend, Discerns a rival in a friend,

And hates him for encroaching. Hence authors of illustrious name, Unless belied by common fame,

Are sadly prone to quarrel, To deem the wit a friend displays A tax upon their own just praise,

And pluck each other's laurel.

Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust,

An error soon corrected-
For who but learns in riper years,
That man, when smoothest he appears,

Is most to be suspected ?
But here again a danger lies,
Lest, having misapplied our eyes,

And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude
Friendship a false ideal good,

A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rare
Is yet no subject of despair;

Nor is it wise complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,

We sought without attaining.
No friendship will abide the test,
That stands on sordid interest,

Or mean self-love erected; Nor such as may awhile subsist, Between the sot and sensualist,

For vicious ends connected. Who seek a friend should come dispos'd, T' exhibit in full bloom disclos'd

The graces and the beauties,
That form the character he seeks,
For 'tis a union that bespeaks

Reciprocated duties.
Mutual attention is implied,
And equal truth on either side,

And constantly supported :
'Tis senseless armgance t'accuse
Another of sinister vie

Our own as much distorted.

A man renown'd for repartee
Will seldom scruple to make free

With friendship's finest feeling; Will thrust a dagger at your breast, And say he wounded you in jest,

By way of balm for healing.
Whoever keeps an open ear
For tattlers, will be sure to hear

The trumpet of contention;
Aspersion is the babbler's trade,
To listen is to lend him aid,

And rush into dissension.

A friendship, that in frequent fits
Of controversial rage emits

The sparks of disputation,
Like Hand-in-Hand insurance plates,
Most unavoidably creates

The thought of conflagration.

Some fickle creatures boast a soul
True as a needle to the Pole,

Their humor yet so various-
They manifest their whole life through
The needle's deviation too,

'Their love is so precarious

The great and small but rarely meet
On terms of amity complete ;

Plebeians must surrender,
And yield so much to noble folk,
It is combining fire with smoke,

Obscurity with splendor.

As similarity of mind,
Or something not to be defin'd,

First fixes our attention ;
So manners decent and polite,
The sarne we practis'd at first sight,

Must save it from declension.

Some are so placid and serene,
(As Irish bogs are always green)

They slcep secure from waking; And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares,

Unmov'd and without quaking.

Courtier and patriot cannot mix
Their het'rogeneous politics

Without an effervescence,
Like that of salis with lemon-juice,
Which does not yet like that produce

A friendly coalescence.

Religion should extinguish strise,
And make a calm of human life;

But friends that chance to differ
On points which God has left at large,
How freely will they meet and charge!

No combatants are stiffer.

Some act upon this prudent plan,
" Say little, and hear all you can :"

Safe policy, but hateful-
So barren sands imbibe the show'r,
But render neither fruit nor flow'r,

Unpleasant and ungrateful.
The man I trust, if shy to me,
Shall find me as reserv'd as he ;

No subterfuge or pleading
Shall win my confidence again,
I will by no means entertain

A spy on my proceeding.
These samples—for alas! at last
These are but samples, and a laste

Of evils yet unmention'da
May prove the task a task indeed,
In which 'tis much if we succeed,

However well-intention'd.
Pursue the search, and you will find
Good sense and knowledge of mankind

To be at least expedient,
And, after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast,

A principal ingredient.
The noblest friendship ever shown
The Savior's history makes known,

Though some have turn'd and turn'd i
And, whether being craz'd or blind,
Or seeking with a biass’d mind,

Have not, it seems, discern'd it.
O Friendship! if my soul forego
Thy dear delights while here below;

To mortify and grieve me,
May I myself at last appear
Unworthy, base, and insincere,

Or may my friend deceive me.

To prove at last my main intent
Needs no expense of argument,

No cutting and contriving
Seeking a real friend, we seem
T' adopt the chymists' golden dream,

With still less hope of thriving.

Sometimes the fault is all our own, Some blemish in due time made known,

By trespass or omission; Sometimes occasion brings to light Our friend's defect long hid from sight,

And even from suspicion.

Then judge yourself and prove your man As circumspectly as you can,

And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures,

Enfeeble his affection.

RETIREMENT.

Chat secrets are a sacred trust,
That friends should be sincere and just,

That constancy befits them,
Are observations on the case,
That savor much of commonplace,

And all the world admits them.

studiis florens ignobilis oti.

Virg. Georg v. iv.

But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, An architect requires alone,

To finish a fine buildingThe palace were but half complete, If he could possibly forget

The carving and the gilding.

HACKNEY'D in business, wearied at that oar
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er,
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of Ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having liv'd a trifler, die a man.

The man that hails you Tom or Jack,
And proves by thumps upon your back

How he esteems your merit,
Is such a friend, that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed,

To pardon or to bear it.

Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast, At such a sight to catch the poet's flame,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd, And with a rapture like his own exclaim,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,

“ These are thy glorious works, thou source of good
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own, How dimly seen, how faintly understood !
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care,
From what debilitates, and what inflames, This universal frame, thus wondrous fair;
From cities humming with a restless crowd, Thy pow'r divine, and bounty beyond thought,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,

Ador'd and prais'd in all that thou hast wrought.
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain, Absorb'd in that immensity I see,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain, I shrink abas’d, and yet aspire to thee;
Where works of man are cluster'd close around, Instruct me, guide me to that heav'nly day,
And works of God are hardly to be found, Thy words, more clearly ihan thy works, display,
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe, That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,

I may resemble thee, and call thee mine."
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, O blest proficiency! surpassing all,
Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love. That men erroneously their glory call,
"Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day,

The recompense that arts or arms can yield,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,

The bar, the senate, or the tented field, True wisdom will attend his feeble call,

Compard with this sublimest life below,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.

Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show?
Souls, that have long despis'd their heav'nly birth, Thus studied, us d and consecrated thus.
Their wishes all impregnated with Earth,

On Earth what is, seems form'd indeed for us .
For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care Not as the plaything of a froward child,
In catching smoke and feeding upon air,

Fretful unless diverted and beguild,
Conversant only with the ways of man,

Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.

Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, Invet'rate habits choke th' unfruitful heart,

But as a scale, by which the soul ascends Their fibres penetrate its tend'rest part,

From mighty means to more important ends, And, draining its nutritious pow'rs to feed

Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, Their noxious growth, starve ev'ry better seed. Mounts from inferior beings up to God,

Happy, if full of days—but happier far, And sees, by no fallacious light or dim, If, ere we yet discern life's ev'ning-star,

Earth made for man, and man himself for him.
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds

Not that I mean t' approve, or would enforce
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, A superstitious and monastic course :
We can escape from Custom's idiot sway, Truth is not local, God alike pervades
To serve the Sov'reign we were born t’ obey. And fills the world of traffic and the shades,
Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes,
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made!

Or scorn'd where business never intervenes.
To trace in Nature's most minute design

But 'tis not easy, with a mind like ours, 'The signature and stamp of power divine, Conscious of weakness in its noblest pow'rs, Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease,

And in a world, where, other ills apart, Where unassisted sight no beauty sees,

The roving eye misleads the careless heart, The shapely limb and lubricated joint,

To limit thought, by nature prone to stray Within the small dimensions of a point,

Wherever freakish fancy points the way;
Muscle and nerve miraculously spun,

To bid the pleadings of Self-love be still,
His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, Resign our own, and seek our Maker's will;
Th' invisible in things scarce seen reveald, To spread the page of Scripture, and compare
To whom an alom is an ample field;

Our conduct with the laws engraven there ;
To wonder at a thousand insect forms,

To measure all that passes in the breast,
These hatch'd and those resuscitated worms, Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;
New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share, To dive into the secret deeps within,
Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, To spare no passion and no fav'rite sin,
Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and size, And search the themes, important above all,
More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; Ourselves, and our recov'ry from our fall.
With helmet-heads, and dragon-scales adorn'd, But leisure, silence, and a mind releas'd
The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increas
Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, How to secure in some propitious hour,
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth: The point of int'rest, or the post of pow'r,
Then with a glance of fancy to survey,

A soul serene, and equally retir'd
Far as the faculty can stretch away,

From objects too much dreaded or desir'd, Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command Safe from the clamors of perverse dispute, From urns, that never fail, through ev'ry land; At least are friendly to the great pursuit. These like a deluge with impetuous force,

Op’ning the map of God's extensive plan, Those winding modestly a silent course;

We find a little isle this life of man; The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales; Eternity's unknown expanse appears Seas, on which ev'ry nation spreads her sails ; Circling around and limiting his years. The Sun, a world whence other worlds drink light, The busy race examine and explore The crescent Moon, the diadem of night;

Each creek and cavern of the dang'rous shore, Stars countless, each in his appointed place, With care collect what in their eyes excels, Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space

Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shell:

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