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Although an earnest wooer of the Muse

Say while in cool Ausonian shades

Or British wilds he roam'd,
Striking by turns his native lyre,

By turns the Daunian lute,
And stepp'd almost in air-

Say, little book, what furtive hand
Thee from thy fellow-books convey'd,
What time, at the repeated suit

Of my most learned friend,
I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller,
From our great city to the source of Thames,

Cærulean fire!
Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring,

Of the Aonian choir,
Durable as yonder spheres,
And through the endless lapse of years

Secure to be admired?

Strophe 2.
Now what god, or demigod,
For Britain's ancient genius moved,

(If our afflicted land
Have expiated at length the guilty Noth

Of her degenerate sons)
Shall terminate our impious feuds,
And discipline with hallow'd voice recall ?

Recall the Muses too,

Driven from their ancient seats In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore,

And with keen Phæbean shafts
Piercing the unseemly birds,

Whose talons menace us,
Shall drive the harpy race from Helicon afar?

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd,

Whether by treachery lost,
Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault,

From all thy kindred books,
To some dark cell or cave forlorn,

Where thou endurest, perhaps,
The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,

Be comforted
For lo! again the splendid hope appears

That thou mayst yet escape
The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove !

Strophe 3.
Since Rouse desires thee, and complains

That, though by promise his,

Thou yet appear'st not in thy place
Among the literary noble stores

Given to his care,
But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete,
He, therefore, guardian vigilant

Of that unperishing wealth,
Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,
Where he intends a richer treasure far
Than lön kept (lön, Erectheus' son
Illustrious, of the fair Creüsa born)


In the resplendent temple of his god,
Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves,

The Muses' favourite haunt;
Resume thy station in Apollo's dome,

Dearer to him
Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill!

Exulting go,
Since now a splendid lot is also thine,
And thou art fought by my propitious friend ;

For there thou shalt be read

With authors of exalted note, The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.

Ye, then, my works, no longer vain,

And worthless deem'd by me!
Whate'er this sterile genius has produced,
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,

An unmolested happy home,
Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend,

Where never flippant tongue profane

Shall entrance find,
And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude

Shall babble far remote.
Perhaps some future distant age,
Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught,

Shall furnish minds of power
To judge more equally.

Then, malice silenced in the tomb,

Cooler heads and founder hearts,

Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise
I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.





AIR Lady! whose harmonious name the

Through all his grassy vale, delights to

Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear
To love a spirit elegant as thine,
That manifests a sweetness all divine,

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare,

And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. When gracefully thou speak'st, or fingest gay,

Such strains as might the senseless forest move, Ah then-turn each his eyes and ears away,

Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.


S on a hill-top rude, when closing day
Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral mai-

den fair
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,
Borne from its native genial airs away,
That scarcely can its tender bud display,

So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare,

Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essay

Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain; So Love has will’d, and ofttimes Love has shown

That what he wills, he never wills in vain. Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be To Him, who plants from heaven, a foil as free!


HEY mock my toil—the nymphs and

amorous swainsAnd whence this fond attempt to write,

they cry,

Love-songs in language that thou little know'st? How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains ? Say truly,—find'st not oft thy purpose cross’d, And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die? Then with pretence of admiration high

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