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THOMAS WARTON.

BORN 1687.- DIED 1745.

THOMAS WARTON, the elder, father of Joseph and Thomas Warton, was of Magdalen College, Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and twice chosen Poetry Professor.

RETIREMENT.

AN ODE.

On beds of daisies idly laid,
The willow waving o'er my head,
Now morning, on the bending stem,
Hangs the round and glittering gem,
Lull’d by the lapse of yonder spring,
Of nature's various charms I sing :
Ambition, pride, and pomp, adieu,
For what has joy to do with you?

Joy, rose-lipt dryad, loves to dwell
In

sunny field or mossy cell;
Delights on echoing hills to hear
The reaper's song, or lowing steer;
Or view, with tenfold plenty spread,
The crowded corn-field, blooming mead;

While beauty, health, and innocence,
Transport the eye, the soul, the sense.

Not fresco'd roofs, not beds of state,
Not guards that round a monarch wait;
Not crowds of flatterers can scare,
From loftiest courts, intruding Care.
Midst odours, splendors, banquets, wine,
While minstrels sound, while tapers shine,
In sable stole sad Care will come,
And darken the sad drawing-room.

Nymphs of the groves, in green array'd,
Conduct me to your thickest shade;
Deep in the bosom of the vale,
Where haunts the lonesome nightingale ;
Where Contemplation, maid divine,
Leans against some aged pine,
Wrapt in solemn thought profound,
Her
eyes

fixt stedfast on the ground.

Oh, virtue's nurse, retired queen,
By saints alone and hermits seen,
Beyond vain mortal wishes wise,
Teach me St. James's to despise;
For what are crowded courts, but schools
For fops, or hospitals for fools;
Where slaves and madmen, young and old,
Meet to adore some calf of gold?

VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR

CASTLE.

FROM beauteous Windsor's high and story'd halls,
Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls,
To

my low çot, from ivory beds of state,
Pleas'd I return, unenvious of the great.
So the bee ranges o'er the vàry'd scenes
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of

greens,
Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill,
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill;
Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells,
Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells ;
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers,
And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;
At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE.

FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS.

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STAY, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake,
Nor hide thee in

yon

darksome brake :
But let me oft thy charms review,
Thy glittering scales, and golden hue;
From these a chaplet shall be wove,
To grace the youth I dearest love.

Then

ages hence, when thou no more Shalt creep along the sunny shore,

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Thy copy'd beauties shall be seen ;
Thy red and azure mix'd with green,
In mimic folds thou shalt display:
Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay.

THOMAS SOUTHERN

Was born in Dublin, in the year 1660, and died in

1746.

FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ISABELLA.

ACT IV, SCENE II,

Isabella meeting with Biron after her marriage with Villeroy.

Enter Nurse. Nurse. MADAM, the gentleman's below. Isabella. I had forgot; pray let me speak with him.

[Exit Nurse. This ring was the first present of my love To Biron, my first husband; I must blush To think I have a second. Biron died (Still to my loss) at Candy; there's my hope. Oh, do I live to hope that he died there? It must be so: he's dead, and this ring left By his last breath to some known faithful friend, To bring me back again :

[Biron introduced Nurse retires. That's all I have to trust to

My fears were woman's—I have viewed him all :
And let me, let me say it to myself,
I live again, and rise but from his tomb.

Biron. Have you forgot me quite ?
Isa. Forgot you!
Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my mis-

fortunes ! My Isabella! [He goes to her; she shrieks, and falls in a swoon.] Isa. Ha!

Bir. Oh come again !
Thy Biron summons thee to life and love;
Once I had charms to wake thee:
Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls
Thy Biron speaks to thee.

Isa. My husband ! Biron !

Bir. Excess of love and joy, for my return, Has overpowered her. I was to blame To take thy sex's softness unprepar'd: But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms, This ecstacy has made my welcome more Than words could say: words may be counterfeit, False-coined, and current only from the tongue, Without the mind; but passion's in the soul, And always speaks the heart. Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him

from me? I know his voice: life

upon Here's the soft lure that brings me back again; 'Tis he himself, my Biron, the dear man!

: my

the wing,

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