His House, embosom'd in the Grove,
Sacred to focial life and social love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene:
Thither, the filver-founding lyres

Shall call the fmiling Loves, and young Defires; There, ev'ry Grace and Muse shall throng,

Exalt the dance, or animate the fong; There Youths and Nymphs, in confort gay, Shall hail the rifing, clofe the parting day. With me, alas! those joys are o’er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The ftill-believing, ftill-renew'd defire; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind Deceivers of the foul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th'involuntary Tear? Why words fo flowing, thoughts fo free,

Stop, or turn nonfenfe, at one glance of thee? Thee, dreft in Fancy's airy beam,

Abfent I follow thro' th'extended' Dream; Now, now I feize, I clafp thy charms,

And now you burft (ah cruel!) from my arms;

And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or foftly glide by the Canal,

Now fhown by Cynthia's filver ray,

And now, on rolling waters fnatch'd away.

LIBER

N

O DE IX.

E forte credas interitura, quae

IV.

Longe fonantem natus ad Aufidum

Non ante vulgatas per artes

Verba loquor focianda chordis;

Non, fi priores Maeonius tenet
Sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent
Ceaeque, et Alcaei minaces
Stefichorique graves Camenae:

Nec, fi quid olim lufit Anacreon,
Delevit aetas: fpirat adhuc amor,
Vivuntque commiffi calores

Aeoliae fidibus puellae.

Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; fed omnes illacrymabiles
Urguentur ignotique longa
Nocte, carent quia vate facro.

Part of the NINTH ODE

Of the FOURTH BOOK.

EST you should think that verse shall die,

L Which founds the Silver Thames along,

Taught, on the wings of Truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar fong;

Tho' daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spencer native Muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay-

Sages and Chiefs long fince had birth
Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd;
These rais'd new Empires o'er the Earth,

And Thofe, new Heav'ns and Syftems fram'd.

Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's pride!
They had no Poet, and they died.
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no Poet, and are dead.

MISCELLANIES.