Drops lifeless down. O deemeft thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature giv'n
To mutual terror and compaffion's tears?
No fweetly-melting foftnefs which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the focial pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end ?-
Afk thy own heart; when at the midnight hour,
Slow thro' that ftudious gloom thy pausing eye
Led by the glimm'ring taper moves around
The facred volumes of the dead, the fongs.
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame
For Grecian Heroes, where the prefent pow'r
Of heav'n and earth furveys th' immortal page,
E'en as a father bleffing, while he reads
The praises of his fon; if then thy foul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame;
Say, when the profpect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the bafe, heroic states
Mourn in the dust and tremble at the frown
Of curft ambition ;-when the pious band
Of youths that fought for freedom and their fires
Lie fide by fide in gore ;-when ruffian-pride
Ufurps the throne of Juftice, turns the pomp
Of public pow'r, the majefty of rule,
The fword, the laurel, and the purple robe,.
To flavifh empty pageants, to adorn

A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes

Of fuch as bow the knee ;-when honour'd urns.
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust
And ftoried arch, to glut the coward rage

Of regal envy, ftrew the public way

With hallow'd ruins !—when the muse's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarfe jargon of contentious monks,
Of female fuperftition's midnight pray'r ;-
When ruthless rapine from the hand of time
Tears the deftroying scythe, with furer blow
To sweep the works of glory from their base;
Till defolation o'er the grass grown street
Expands his raven wings, and up the wall,
Where fenates once the pride of monarchs doom'd,
Hiffes the gliding fnake thro' hoary weeds
That clafp the mould'ring column ;-thus defac'd,
Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills
Thy beating bofom, when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of love
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car ;—
Say, does thy fecret foul repine to taste
The big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling forrows, for the lot

Of him who fits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold invefted front,

And fays within himself, "I am a king,
"And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of woe
"Intrude upon mine ear?"-The baleful dregs
Of thofe late ages, this inglorious draught

Of fervitude and folly, have not yet,
Bleft be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!
Defil'd to fuch a depth of fordid shame

0.6

The

The native honours of the human foul,

Nor fo effac'd the image of its fire.

AKENSIDE,

CHA P.

XXV.

ON TASTE.

AY, what is tafte, but the internal pow'rs

SAY

Active, and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and fublime, with quick disguft
From things deform'd, or difarrang'd, or grofs
In fpecies? This nor gems, nor ftores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow ;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the facred bias of the foul.
He, mighty Parent! wife and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze or light of heav'n,
Reveals the charms of nature.

Afk the fwain

Who journies homeward from a fummer-day's
Long labour, why forgetful of his toils
And due repofe, he loiters to behold

The funshine gleaming as thro' amber clouds,
O'er all the western fky? Full foon, I ween,
His rude expreffion and untutor'd airs,
Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart,

How lovely! how commanding! But tho' Heav'n
In every breaft hath fown thefe early feeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain,
Without fair culture's kind parental aid,
Without enlivening funs, and genial fhow'rs.

And

And fhelter from the blaft, in vain we hope
The tender plant fhould rear its blooming head,
Or yield the harveft promis'd in its spring.
Nor yet will every foil with equal ftores
Repay the tiller's labour; or attend
His will, obfequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel: diff'rent minds
Incline to diff'rent objects: one pursues
The vaft alone, the wonderful, the wild;
Another fighs for harmony, and grace,

And gentleft beauty. Hence when lightning fires
The arch of heav'n, and thunders rock the ground;
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from his loweft bed,
Heaves his tempeftuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakespear looks abroad
From fome high cliff, fuperior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of fome flow'ry ftream,
To fpread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantane fhades, and to the lift'ning deer,
The tale of flighted vows and love's disdain
Refounds foft warbling all the live-long day:
Confenting Zephyr fighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such and fo various are the tastes of men.

AKENSIDE.

С НА Р.

CHAP. XXVI.

THE PLEASURES ARISING FROM A CULTIVATED IMAGINATION..

BLEST of Heav'n, whom not the languid fongs
Of luxury, the Siren! not the bribes

Of fordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave

Thofe ever-blooming fweets, which from the ftore
Of nature, fair imagination culls

To charm th' enliven'd foul! What tho' not all.
Of mortal offspring can attain the height

Of envied life; tho' only few poffefs
Patrician treasures or imperial state ;
Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treafures and an ampler state
Endows at large whatever happy man

Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,.
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns

The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the fculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud poffeffor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breaft enjoys. For him the spring
Diftils her dews, and from the filken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds for him, the hand.
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each paffing hour fheds tribute from her wings;
And ftill new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes

The