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Let Melancholy's plaintive tongue
Repeat what later bards have sung;
But thine was Homer's ancient might,
And thine victorious Pindar's flight:
Thy hand each Lesbian wreath attir'd:
Thy lip Sicilian reeds inspir'd:
Thy spirit lent the glad perfume
Whence yet the flowers of Teos bloom;
Whence yet from Tibur's Sabine vale
Delicious blows the enlivening gale,
While Horace calls thy sportive choir,
Heroes and nymphs, around his lyre.

But see where yonder pensive sage
(A prey perhaps to fortune's rage,
Perhaps by tender griefs oppress'd,
Or glooms congenial to his breast)
Retires in desert scenes to dwell,
And bids the joyless world farewell.
Alone he treads the autumnal shade,
Alone beneath the mountain laid
He sees the nightly damps ascend,
And gathering storms aloft impend;
He hears the neighbouring surges roll,
And raging thunders shake the pole:
Then, struck by every object round,
And stunn'd by every horrid sound,
He asks a clue for Nature's ways;
But evil haunts him through the maze:
He sees ten thousand demons rise
To wield the empire of the skies,

And Chance and Fate assume the rod,
And Malice blot the throne of God.
- O thou, whose pleasing power I sing,
Thy lenient influence hither bring;
Compose the storm, dispel the gloom,
Till Nature wear her wonted bloom,
Till fields and shades their sweets exhale
And music swell each opening gale:
Then o'er his breast thy softness pour,
And let him learn the timely hour
To trace the world's benignant laws,
And judge of that presiding cause
Who founds on discord beauty's reign,
Converts to pleasure every pain,
Subdues each hostile form to rest,
And bids the universe be bless'd.
O thou, whose pleasing power I sing,
If right I touch the votive string,
If equal praise I yield thy name,
Still govern thou thy poet's flame;
Still with the Muse my bosom share,
And soothe to peace intruding care.
But most exert thy pleasing power
On friendship's consecrated hour;
And while my Sophron points the road
To godlike wisdom's calm abode,
Or warm in freedom's ancient cause
Traceth the source of Albion's laws,
Add thou o'er all the generous toil
The light of thy unclouded smile.

But if, by fortune's stubborn sway
From him and friendship torn away,
I court the Muse's healing spell
For griefs that still with absence dwell,
Do thou conduct my fancy's dreams
To such indulgent placid themes,
As just the struggling breast may cheer,
And just suspend the starting tear,
Yet leave that sacred sense of woe
Which none but friends and lovers know.

ODE VII.

ON THE USE OF POETRY.

I.

NOT for themselves did human kind
Contrive the parts by Heaven assign'd
On life's wide scene to play:
Not Scipio's force nor Cæsar's skill
Can conquer Glory's arduous hill,
If Fortune close the way.

II.

Yet still the self-depending soul,
Though last and least in Fortune's roll,
His proper sphere commands;

And knows what Nature's seal bestow'd,
And sees, before the throne of God,
The rank in which he stands.

III.

Who train'd by laws the future age,
Who rescu'd nations from the rage
Of partial, factious power,

My heart with distant homage views;
Content if thou, celestial Muse,

Didst rule my natal hour.

IV.

Not far beneath the hero's feet,
Nor from the legislator's seat

Stands far remote the bard.

Though not with public terrors crown'd,
Yet wider shall his rule be found,
More lasting his award.

V.

Lycurgus fashion'd Sparta's fame,

And Pompey to the Roman name
Gave universal sway:

Where are they?- Homer's reverend page

Holds empire to the thirtieth age,

And tongues and climes obey.

VI.

And thus when William's acts divine
No longer shall from Bourbon's line

Draw one vindictive vow;

When Sidney shall with Cato rest,
And Russel move the patriot's breast
No more than Brutus now;

VII.

Yet then shall Shakespeare's powerful art
O'er every passion, every heart,

Confirm his awful throne:

Tyrants shall bow before his laws;

And Freedom's, Glory's, Virtue's cause,
Their dread assertor own.

ODE VIII.

ON LEAVING HOLLAND.

I. 1.

FAREWELL to Leyden's lonely bound,
The Belgian Muse's sober seat;
Where dealing frugal gifts around
To all the favourites at her feet,
She trains the body's bulky frame
For passive, persevering toils;
And lest, from any prouder aim,

The daring mind should scorn her homely spoils, She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame.

I. 2.

Farewell the grave, pacific air,

Where never mountain zephyr blew :

The marshy levels lank and bare,

Which Pan, which Ceres never knew:

The Naiads, with obscene attire,

Urging in vain their urns to flow;

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