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From thought to thought in vision led,
He holds high converse with the dead;
Sages, or Poets. See they rife!
And fhadowy fkim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men :
Lo! Socrates, the fent of heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and friends of human kind,
They form'd the nations, or refin'd;
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlightening truth, adorning art.
While thus I mus'd beneath the shade,
At once the founding breeze was laid :
And Nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe.
Dumb filence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bower:
When, iffuing from the inmoft wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's genius good.
O Freedom! fovereign boon of heaven;
Great charter, with our being given;
For which the patriot, and the fage,
Have plann'd, have bled through every age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace :
Who could not give, nor can reclaim,
What but from God immediate came !
HE rising morn, ferenely still,
Had brightening spread o'er vale and hill, Not those loose beams that wanton play,
To light the mirth of giddy May;
Nor fuch red heats as burn the plain,
In ardent Summer's feverish reign :
But rays, all equal, foft and fober,
To fuit the fecond of October;
To fuit the pair, whofe wedding-day
This fun now gilds with annual ray.
Just then, where our good-natur'd Thames is
Some four fhort miles above St. James's,
And deigns, with filver-streaming wave,
Th' abodes of earth-born pride to lave,
Aloft in air two gods were foaring;
While Putney-cits beneath lay fnoring,
Plung'd deep in dreams of ten per cent,
On fums to their dear country lent :
Two gods of no inferior fame,
Whom ancient wits with reverence name;
Though wifer moderns much disparage-
I mean the Gods of Love and Marriage.
But Cupid first, his wit to shew,
Affuming a mere modern beau,
Whofe utmost aim is idle mirth,
Look'd-just as coxcombs look on earth:
Then rais'd his chin, then cock'd his hat,
Το grace this common-place chit-chat;
How! on the wing, by break of dawn!
Dear brother-there he forc'd a yawn-
To tell men, funk in fleep profound,
They muft, ere night, be gag'd and bound!
Who, having once put on thy chain,
'Tis odds, may ne'er fleep found again.
So fay the wits: but wifer folks
Still marry, and contemn their jokes
They know, each better blifs is thine,
Pure nectar, genuine from the vine!
And Love's own hand that nectar pours,
Which never fails, nor ever fours!
Well, be it fo: yet there are fools,
Who dare demur to formal rules;
Who laugh profanely at their betters,
And find no freedom plac'd`in fetters;
But, well or ill, jog on through life
Without that fovereign blifs, a wife,
Leave these at least, these fad dogs free,
To ftroll with Bacchus and with me;
And fup, in Middlefex, or Surrey,
On coarse cold beef, and Fanny Murray.
Thus Cupid-and with fuch a leer,
You would have fworn 'twas Ligonier.
While Hymen foberly reply'd,
Yet with an air of confcious pride :
Just come from yonder wretched fcene,
Where all is venal, false, and mean,
(Looking on London as he fpoke)
I marvel not at thy dull joke;
Nor, in such cant, to hear thee vapour,
Thy quiver lin'd with South-fea paper;
Thine arrows feather'd, at the tail,
With India-bonds, for hearts on fale;
Their other ends too, as is meet,
Tip'd with gold points from Lombard-street.
But could't thou for a moment quit
These airs of fashionable wit,
And re-affume thy nobler name
Look that way, where I turn my flame
He faid, and held his torch inclin'd,
Which, pointed fo, ftill brighter fhin'd—
Behold yon couple, arm in arm,
Whom I, eight years, have known to charm;
And, while they wear my willing chains,
A god dares fwear that neither feigns.
This morn that bound their mutual vow,
That bleft them firft, and blesses now,
They grateful hail! and, from the foul,
With thousands o'er both heads may roll;
Till, from life's banquet, either gueft,
Embracing, may retire to rest.
Come then, all raillery laid aside,
Let this their day ferenely glide:
With mine thy serious aim unite,
And both fome proper guests invite ;
That not one minute's running fand
May find their pleasures at a stand.
At this fevere and fad rebuke,
Enough to make a coxcomb puke;
Poor Cupid, blushing, shrug'd and winc'd,
Not yet confenting, though convinc'd:
For 'tis your witling's greatest terror,
Ev'n when he feels, to own, his error.
Yet, with a look of arch grimace,
He took his penitential face :
Said, 'twas, perhaps, the furer play,
To give your grave good fouls their way:
That, as true humour was grown scarce,
He chofe to fee a fober farce;
For, of all cattle and all fowl,
Your folemn-looking afs and owl
Rais'd much more mirth, he durft aver it,
Than those jack-puddings, pug and parrot.
He faid, and eastward spread his wing,
From London fome few friends to bring.
His brother too, with fober cheer,
For the fame end did weftward fteer:
But first, a penfive love forlorn,
Who three long weeping years has borne
His torch revers'd, and all around,
Where once it flam'd, with cypress bound,
Sent off, to call a neighbouring friend,
On whom the mournful train attend: