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'Tis filence all. No Son of Light Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant Saints defcend. "Mortals, in vain ye hope to find, "If guilt, if fraud has ftain'd your mind, "Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend."

So TRUTH proclaims. I hear the facred found
Burft from the centre of her burning throne:
Where aye fhe fits with ftar-wreath'd luftre crown'd;
A bright fun clafps her adamantine zone.

So TRUTH proclaims: her awful voice I hear :
With many a folemn pause it flowly meets my ear.
"Attend, ye Sons of Men! attend, and say,
Does not enough of my refulgent ray

Break thro' the veil of your mortality?

Say, does not reafon in this form defcry
Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that furpafs

The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace?
Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
With me? Shall fhe, whofe brightest eye

But emulates the diamond's blaze,

Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume,
Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,

Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form

Of elemental drofs, of mould'ring clay,

Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm

Shall prove her conteft vain. Life's little day
Shall pass, and she is gone: while I appear

Flush'd with the bloom of youth thro' Heav'n's eternal year.

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Know, Mortals, know, ere firft ye sprung,
Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I fhone amid the heav'nly throng;
Thefe eyes beheld Creation's day,
This voice began the choral lay,

And taught Archangels their triumphant fong.
Pleas'd, I furvey'd bright Nature's gradual birth,
Saw infant Light with kindling luftre fpread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth,
And Ocean heave on its extended bed;

Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky,
The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly.

Laft, Man arofe, erect in youthful grace,
Heav'n's hallow'd image ftamp'd upon his face,
And as he rofe, the high beheft was giv'n,
That I alone of all the hosts of heav'n
Should reign Protectrefs of the godlike Youth:
Thus the Almighty fpake; he spake and call'd me Truth:"

MASON.

CHAP. XV.

ODE TO FANCY.

PARENT of each lovely Muse,

Thy spirit o'er my foul diffuse,
O'er all my artlefs fongs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,

; But flowers and honey from the rock.

O Nymph,

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O Nymph, with loosely-flowing hair,
With bufkin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waift with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy fnowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerlefs Lapland's barren fnow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and fea,
While the various landscape lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathlefs vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Midft falls of water you refide,
'Midft broken rocks, a rugged fcene,
With green and graffy dales between,
'Midst foreft dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear'd,

Nor e'en one ftraw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature feems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne:

Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer! tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whofe top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whofe thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her neft,
Each evening warbling thee to reft:

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Then lay me by the haunted ftream
Rapt in fome wild, poetic dream,
In converfe while methinks I rove
With Spenfer thro' a fairy grove;
Till fuddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad foul in blifs is drown'd,
By the fweetly-foothing found!

Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace refort,
And Venus keeps her feftive court,

Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crown'd'heads;
Where Laughter rofe-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks fteep hills among,
Lift'ning to the fhepherd's fong.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my penfive mind employ:
Hafte, Fancy, from these scenes of Folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and figh!
Let us with filent footsteps go

To charnels and the houfe of Woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each fad night some virgin comes
With throbbing breaft, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to feek;
Or to fome abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's fhowr's,

The

The naked beggar fhiv'ring lies,
While whistling tempefts round her rise,
And trembles left the tottering wall
Should on her fleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder ftrike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire-
I feel, I feel, with fudden heat, `.
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' fhrieks I hear-
Give me another horfe! I cry,

Lo! the bafe Gallic fquadrons fly:
Whence is this rage ?What spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?

"Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Tranfports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of flain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead:
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fullen joy furveys the ground,
And pointing to th' enfanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-fhield!

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura feeks, to fhun
The fervours of the mid-day fun;
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canft fold in vifionary bliss,

And let me think I fteal a kifs,

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