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aps e'en Britain's utmost shore
I cease to blush with stranger's gore:
arts her savage sons controul,
Athens rising near the pole !

e new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
I madness tears them from the land.

gods! what justice rules the ball?
edom and arts together fall;
Is grant whate'er ambition craves,
- men once ignorant are slaves,
ursed effects of civil hate,
very age, in every state!
en the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
thens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

ORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

rant Love! hast thou possess'd prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? om and wit in vain reclaim,

but soften us to feel thy flame.
soft intruder, enters here,
ntering learns to be sincere.
us, with blushes owns he loves,
Brutus tenderly reproves.
ny, virtue, dost thou blame desire,
Which nature hath impress'd?
hy, nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and generous breast?
Chorus.

's purer flames the gods approve;
gods and Brutus bend to love:
is for absent Porcía sighs,
erner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
It is loose love? a transient gust,
at in a sudden storm of lust;

A vapour fed from wild desire;
A wandering, self-consuming fire..
But Hymen's kinder flames unite,,
And burn for ever one;
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the sun.

Semichorus.

Oh source of every social tie,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend.
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his smiling progeny;

What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With reverence, hope, and love.
Chorus.

Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises;
Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises,.
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine:

Purest Love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure;
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure,
Sacred Hymen! these are thine..

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

Written when the Author was about twelve Years old.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Bless'd, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night: study and ease,
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented, let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

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ODE.

The dying Christian to his Soul.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame :
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying-
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears.
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
Oh grave! where is thy victory?
Oh death! where is thy sting?

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. Written in the Year 1709.

PART I.

Introduction. That it is as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public, ver. 1. That a true taste is as rare to be found as 3 true genius, ver. 9 to 18. That most men are born with some taste, but spoiled by false education, ver. 19 to 25. The multitude of critics, and causes of them, ver. 26 to 45. That we are to study our own taste, and know the limits of it, ver. 46 to 67. Nature the best guide of judgment, ver. 68 to 87. Improved by art and rules, which are but methodized nature, ver. 88. Rules derived from the practice of ancient poets, ver. 88 to 110. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a critic, particularly Homer and Virgil, ver. 120 to 138. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients, ver. 140 to 180. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them, ver. 181, &c.

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging ill;
But of the two, less dangerous is the offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches; none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare,
True taste as seldom is the critic's share;

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