He liv'd the guardian of the laws; Dear LIBERTY! round ALBION's ille

OF PARNASSUS:

A NO DE,

Who now will guard your facred cause?

CHORUS.

Dear liberty, &c.

ATE gave the word the deed is done; AUGUSTUS is no more ;

FATE

His great career of fame is run, And all the lofs deplore.

See! where BRITANNIA ftands

With close-infolded hands,

On yonder fea-beat shore !

Behold her languid air!

To! her difhevell'd hair!

Majestic now no more

?

CALLIOPE.

Well, fifters of the sacred spring, Well may you rend your golden hair ; Well may you now your dirges fing, And pierce with cries the troubled air.

CHORUS.

Fate gave the word, &c.

CLI •

Founded in juftice was his sway;
Ambition never mark'd his way.

CALLIOPE.

Unless the beft ambition that can fire
A monarch's breast and all his foul infpire,
The gen'rous purpose of the noble mind,
The best ambition-to ferve human kind.

APOLLO.

Yes, Virgins, yes; that wish fublime
Rank'd him with those of earliest time,
Who for a people's welfare ftrove ;
Whofe fpirits breathe ætherial air,
And for their meed of earthly care,

Drink Nectar with Olympian Jove.
CALLIOPE.

Oh! TRUTH! fair daughter of the sky.
And MERCY!-that with afking eye

Near the OMNIPOTENT do'st ftand ; And, when mankind provoke his rage, Do'ft clafp his knees, his wrath affuage, And win the thunder from his hand!

CL 1 0.

Oh! white-rob'd FAITH! cæleftial maid! Twin-born with JUSTICE! by whofe aid

MERCURY descends.

No more, harmonious Progeny of Jove,
No more let fun'ral accents rife ;

The great, the good AUGUSTUS reigns above,
Tranflated to his kindred fkies.

CLIÒ.

No more for my hiftoric page

CALLIOPE.

No more for my great epic rage-
Вот н.

Will by the hero now be done-
CHORUS.

His great career of fame is run,
And all the lofs deplore.

Enter MARS.

Lo? Mars, from his beloved land,
Where freedom long hath fix'd her stand,
Bids ye collect your flowing hair,

And again the laurel wear:

For fee! BRITANNIA rears her drooping head;
Again refumes her TRIDENT of the main;
THAMES takes his urn, and feeks his wat'ry bed,
While gay content fits fmiling on the plain.
Hark! a glad voice.

Proclaims the people's choice.

CHORUS, within the Scenes.

He is our liege, our rightful lord!
Of heart and tongue with one accord
We all will fing

Long live the king!

He is our liege!-he!-he alone!

With BRITISH HEART he mounts the throne;
Around him throngs a loyal band;
He will protect his NATIVE LAND!
He is our liege, &c.

[The Mufes rife and put on their laurels.

CALLIOPE.

The mufes now their heads fhall raise ; The arts to life shall spring;

Virgins, we'll trim our wither'd bayes, And wake each vocal string;

Now fhall the fculptor's happy skill

Touch the rude stone to life;

The painter fhall his canvass fill,

Pleas'd with his mimic ftrife.

CLIO.

Nothing mortal will I found;
Lo! the flame, the flame divine!
High I mount, I quit the ground,
Holy fury! I am thine.
With rage poffeft

Big fwells my breast!

In vifrons rapt, before my fight appears A brighter order of increafing years.

MARS.

I fee the Rhine devolve his flood Deep-crimson'd with the Gallic blood! I hear, I hear the diftant roar Of ruin on yon hoftile fhore! I fee, young Prince, to thee I fee The favage Indian bend the knee! Lo! AFRIC from her fable kings Her richest stores in tribute brings! And fartheft IND, beneath the rifing day Lays down her arms, and venerates thy fway

CALLIOPE.

I fee Bellona banish'd far!

I fee him close the gates of war,

While purple rage within
With gaftly ire shall grin,

And rolling his terrific eyes,

Where round him heaps of arms arife,

Bound with a hundred brazen chains,

In vain shall foam, and thirst for fanguine plains:

CLIO.

Sweat peace returns ;

O'er Albion's fons

She waves her dove-like wing:

On ev'ry plain

The fhepherd train

Their artless loves fhall fing,

Pale DISCORD fhall fly

From the light of the sky.

But praife is fcanty to reveal
The fpeaking bleffings all muft feel.

DAMON.

True, all muft feel-but thankless too?
Nor give to virtue, virtue's due?
My grateful heart shall ever fhew
The debt I need not blush to owe.

AIR.

That I go where I lift, that I fing what I please, That my labour's the price of contentment and eafe, That no care from abroad my retirement annoys, That at home I can taite the true family joys, That my kids wanton fafely o'er meadows and rocks, That my fheep graze fecure.from the robber or fox ; Thefe are bleffings I fhare with the reft of the fwains, For it's Thyrfis who gave them, and Thyrfis maintains.

DAMÆTAS.

RECITATIVE.

Perish my voice, if e'er I blame
Thy duty to our guardian's name!
His active talents I revere,
But eye them with a jealous fear.
Intent to form our blifs alone,

The generous youth forgets his own;
Nor e'er his bufy mind employs
To find a partner of his joys.
So might his happy offspring own

The virtues which their fire hath shews.

AIR.

With joy the parent loves to trace
Refemblance in his children's face :
And as he forms their docile youth
To walk the steady paths of truth,
Obferves them fhooting into men,
And lives in them life o'er again.

While active fons, with eager flame,
Catch virtue at their father's name;
When full of glory, full of age,
The parent quits this busy stage,
What in the fons we moft admire,
Calls to new life the honour'd fire.

SYLVI A.
RECITATIVE.

O prudent Sage forgive the zeal

Of thoughtless youth. With thee I feel,
The glories now Arcadia fhares
May but embitter future cares.

Oh mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice, Infpire, direct, and fanctify his choice.

AIR.

So may all thy fylvan train,
Dryad, nymph, and ruftic faun,]
To the pipe and merry ftrain,

Trip it o'er the ruffet lawn!
May no thorn or bearded grafs
Hurt their footsteps as they pass,

Of which, to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illuftration:
The fam'd Mat Prior, it is faid,
Oft bit his nails, and fcratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes,
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In short, he labour'd to write easy.
And yet, no critic e'er defines
His poems into labour'd lines.
I have a fimile will hit him;

His verfe, like cloaths, was made to fit him,
Which (as no Taylor e'er denied)
The better fit, the more they're tried.

Though I have mention'd Prior's name, Think not I aim at Prior's fame.

Tis the refult of admiration

To fpend itself in imitation;

If imitation may be said,
Which is in me by nature bred,

And you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolater of cafe.

Who, but a madman, would engage A Poet in the prefent age?

Write what we will, our works befpeak us Imitatores, jervum Pecus.

Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,

We travel in the beaten road:
The proverb ftill fticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas faid an age ago,

Ere Milton foar'd in thought fublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,
Ere Colman wrote in stile fo pure,
Or the great TWO the CONNOISSEUR ;
Ere I burlefqu'd the rural cit,
Proud to hedge in my fcraps of wit,
T acquire fome name from their reflexion
And happy in the close connexion,
So (the fimilitude is trite)

The moon ftill fhines with borrow'd light,
And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the fun for her lac'd cloaths.

Methinks there is no better time To fhew the ufe I make of rhyme, Than now, when I, who from beginning Was always fond of couplet-finning, Prefuming on good nature's fcore, Thus lay my bantling at your door.

The first advantage which I fee, Is, that I ramble loofe and free: The Bard indeed full oft complains, That rhymes are fetters, links, and chairs, And when he wants to leap the fence, Still keep him pris'ner to the fenfe. Howe'er in common place he rage, Rhyme's like your fetters on the ftage, Which when the player once hath wore, It makes him only ftrut the more, While, raving in pathetic ftrains, He shakes his legs to clank his chains. 2 A 2