BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON.
Parent of each lovely mufe,
Thy fpirit o'er my foul diffuse!
O'er all my artless fongs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built fhrine,
In golden cups no coftly wine;
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bofom bare ;
Thy waist 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 blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren fnow;
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and fea:
While the vast various landscape lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the defart, 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 scene,
With green and graffy dales between:
'Midft forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke ;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one ftraw-rooft cott was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, fweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and mofs o'erlay the floor;
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whofe thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her nest,
Each ev'ning warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in fome wild, poetic dream;
In converfe while methinks I rove
With Spencer 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 festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rofe-lip'd Hebe leads:
Where Echo walks steep 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 the 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 house of woe;
To gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each fad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to feek.
Or to fome Abby's mould'ring tow❜rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,
The naked beggar fhivering 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 bofom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my 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, fay,
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 deftruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded feed,
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror ftalks 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 fcene
To high-archt walks, and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura feeks, to fhun
The fervors of the mid-day fun.
The pangs of abfence, O remove,
For thou can'ft place me near my love.
Can't fold in vifionary blifs,
And let me think I fteal a kifs;
While her ruby lips difpenfe
Lufcious nectar's quinteffence.
When young-eyed fpring profufely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose ;
When the foft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns feeks,
And ftains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his filver beard with cold;
At every feason, let my ear
Thy folemn whispers, FANCY, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a foul to every line,
Ne'er may I ftrive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallow'd strain;
Nor dare to touch the facred string,
Save, when with smiles thou bid'st me fing.
O hear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,
On which thou lov'ft to fit at eve,
Mufing o'er thy darling's grave.
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate fome chofen fwain,
|