« EelmineJätka »
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes,
IN that bleft moment, from his oozy bed Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head. His treffes dropp'd with dews, and o'er the ftream His fhining horns diffus'd a golden gleam : Grav'd on his urn appear'd the Moon, that guides His fwelling waters, and alternate tides; The figur'd ftreams in waves of filver roll❜d, And on her banks Augufta rofe in gold; Around his throne the fea-born Brothers ftood, Who fwell with tributary urns his flood! First the fam'd authors of his ancient name, The winding Ifis, and the fruitful Thame : The Kennet fwift, for filver eels renown'd; The Loddon flow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Coln, whofe dark ftreams his flow'ry islands lave;
High in the midft, upon his urn reclin'd, (His fea-green mantle waving with the wind) The God appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes Where Windfor-domes and pompous turrets rife! Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore. IBID. P. 52.
PEA C. E.
OH, ftretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to fhore,
Till Conqueft cease, and Slav'ry be no more;
Reap their own fruits, and woo their fable loves,
There hateful Envy her own fnakes shall feel,
IBID. P. 55.
ODE FOR MUSIC
ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
DESCEND, , ye Nine! descend, and fing;
The breathing inftruments infpire;
Wake into voice each filent ftring,
Let the warbling lute complain :
'Till the roofs all around
T'he fhrill echoes rebound:
While in more lengthen'd notes, and flow,
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with fpreading founds the skies.
Exulting in triumph now fwell the bold notes:
"Till, by degrees, remote and small,
And melt away
In a dying, dying fall.
By Mufic, minds an equal temper know,
Or, when the foul is prefs'd with cares,
Sloth unfolds her arms, and wakes,
Inteftine War no more our paffions wage,
But when our Country's caufe provokes to arms, How martial mufic bofom warms!
So, when the first bold veffel dar'd the feas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
Inflam'd with glory's charms:
But when through all th’infernal bounds,
What scenes appear'd,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woc,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts!
But, hark! he ftrikes the golden lyre ;
Thy ftone, O Sisyphus! ftands ftill,
And the pale spectres dance!
The Furies fink upon their iron beds,