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O

Parent of each lovely muse,

Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!
O'er all my artless songs preside,
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 with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin’d leg, and bosom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd;
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand;
of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren snow;
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and sea :

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While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes; O lover of the defart, hail ! Say, in what deep and pathless vale ; Or on what hoary mountain's fide, 'Midst falls of water you reside: 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and graffy dales between : Midít forest dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke; Where never human art appear’d, Nor ev’n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd; Where Nature seems 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 whose top an hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to reft. Then lay me by the haunted stream, Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream; In converse while methinks I rove With Spencer thro' a fairy grove; Till suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear;

And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-foothing sound !
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead ;
Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening mcet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly.crowned heads,
With Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads :
Where Echo walks steep hilis among,
List’ning to the shepherd's song,
Yet not these flowery fields of joy,
Can long my pensive mind employ :
Haste, 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 sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek.
Or to some Abby's mouldring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wint'ry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,

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And trembles, left the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire ;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear :
Give me another horse, I cry,

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Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage ?----what spirit, fay,
To battle hurries we away?
'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
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 surveys the ground,
And pointing to'th' enfanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-Thield.
O guide me from this horrid scene

To high-archt walks, and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to fhun The fervors of the mid-day fun. The pangs of absence, O remove, For thou can'lt place me near my love;

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Can'ft fold in vifionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss ; While her ruby lips dispence Luscious nectar's quintessence. When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose; When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale, When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks, When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his filver beard with cold; At every season, let my ear Thy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear. O warm enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breaths an energy divine, That gives a foul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane, To utter an unhallowed strain ; Nor dare to touch the sacred ftring, Save, when with smiles thou bid'ft me fing. O hear our prayer, O hither come From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb, On which thou lov'st to fit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave. O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain,

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