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Her influence taught the Phrygian sage

A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet :

Inured to toil and bitter bread,

He bowed his meek submitted head,

And kissed thy sainted feet.

But thou, O Nymph retired and coy! In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale ?

The lowliest children of the ground,

Moss-rose, and violet blossom round,

And lily of the vale.

0

say what soft propitious hour I best may choose to hail thy power,

And court thy gentle sway? When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day:

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And every storm is laid ;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,

Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whispering through the shade. TO WISDOM.

Dona præsentis rape lætus horæ, ac
Linque severa.

HORAT.

O WISDOM! if thy soft controul

Can soothe the sickness of the soul,

Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the calm of tender peace;

Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway,

And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com’st with frown austere,

To nurse the brood of Care and Fear;

To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh;

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O if thine aspect stern have power
To wither each poor transient flower
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,
And dry the springs whence hope should flow ;-
Wisdom ! thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name!
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,

But never haunt

my

cheerful cell.

Hail to Pleasure's frolic train !

Hail to Fancy's golden reign!
Festive Mirth, and Laughter wild,

Free and sportful as the child !
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith, and fond surprise ! -
Let these, in fairy colours drest,

For ever share

my

careless breast:

Then, though wise I may not be,

The wise themselves shall envy me.

THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING*.

Illic indocto primum se exercuit arcu;
Hei mihi quam doctas nunc habet ille manus !

TIBUL.

When Cupid, wanton boy! was young,
His wings unfledged, and rude his tongue,
He loitered in Arcadian bowers,

And hid his bow in wreaths of flowers;

Or pierced some fond unguarded heart

With now and then a random dart :

But heroes scorned the idle boy,

And love was but a shepherd's toy.

* Addressed to the Author of Essays on Song-Writing.

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