Nurse of each brave pursuit, each gen'rous aim,
By truth exalted to the throne of fame!
Like Greece in science and in liberty,
As Athens learn'd, as Lacedemon free!
E'en now, confess'd to my adoring eyes,
In awful ranks thy gifted sons arise.
Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds,
Thy genuine bards immortal Chaucer leads :
His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing quire,
And beams on all around celestial fire.
With graceful steps see Addison advance,
The sweetest child of Attic elegance :
See Chillingworth the depths of doubt explore,
And Selden ope the rolls of ancient lore:
To all but his belov'd embrace deny'd,
See Locke lead Reason, his majestic bride:
See Hammond pierce religion's golden mine,
And spread the treasur'd stores of truth divine.
All who to Albion gave the arts of peace,
And best the labors plann'd of letter'd ease;
Who taught with truth, or with persuasion
mov'd,
[prov'd,
Who sooth'd with numbers, or with sense im-
Who rang'd the power of reason, or refin'd
All that adorn'd or humaniz'd the mind;

Each priest of health, that mix'd the balmy

bowl,

To rear frail man, and stay the fleeting soul;
All crowd around, and, echoing to the sky,
Hail! Oxford, hail! with filial transport cry.
And see yon sapient train! with lib'ral aim,
'Twas theirs new plans of liberty to frame;
And on the Gothic gloom of slavish sway
To shed the dawn of intellectual day.
With mild debate each musing feature glows,
And well-weigh'd counsels mark their meaning
brows.

"Lo! these the leaders of thy patriot line,"
A Raleigh, Hampden, and a Somers shine.
These from thy source the bold contagion caught,
Their future sons the great example taught;
While in each youth th' hereditary Alame
Still blazes, unextinguish'd and the same!
Nor all the tasks of thoughtful peace engage,
'Tis thine to form the hero as the sage.
I see the sable-suited prince advance [France,
With lilies crown'd, the spoils of bleeding
Edward. The Muses in yon cloister's shade
Bound on his maiden thigh the martial blade:
Bade him the steel for British freedom draw;
And Oxford taught the deeds that Cressy saw.
And see, great father of the sacred band,
The patriot king before me seems to stand.
He, by the bloom of this gay vale beguil'd,
That cheer'd with lively green the shaggy wild,
Hither of yore, forlorn forgotten maid,
The Muse in prattling infancy convey'd ;
From Vandal rage the helpless virgin bore,
And fix'd her cradle on my friendly shore:
Soon grew the maid beneath his fost'ring hand,
Soon stream'd her blessings o'er th' enlighten'd
land.

* Alfred.

Inscription in a Hermitage at Ansley

Hall, in Warwickshire. T. Warton.'
BENEATH this stony roof reclin'd,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind:
And while to shade my lowly cave,
Embow'ring elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
Within my limits lone and still,
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies;
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
At morn I take my custom'd round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And ev'ry op'ning primrose count
That trimly paints my blooming mount:
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude.

I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff and amice gray; And to the world's tumultuous stage Prefer the blameless hermitage?

$ 57. Monody, written near Stratford-uponAvon. T. Warton. AVON, thy rural views, thy pastures wild, The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge, Their boughs entangling with th' embattled sedge;

Thy brink with wat'ry foliage quaintly fring'd,
Thy surface with reflected verdure ting'd,
Soothe me with many a pensive pleasure mild.
But while I muse, that here the bard divine
Whose sacred dust yon high-arch'd aisles inclose,
Where the tall windows rise in stately rows
Above th' embow'ring shade,

Here first, at Fancy's fairy circled shrine,
Of daisies pied his infant off'ring made;
Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe,
Fram'd of thy reeds a shrill and artless pipe;
Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled,
As at the waving of some magic wand;
An holy trance my charmed spirit wings,
And awful shape of warriors and of kings,
People the busy mead,

Like spectres swarming to the wizard's hall;
And slowly pace, and point with trembling hand
The wounds ill cover'd by the purple pall.
Before me Pity seems to stand

A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore,
To see Misfortune rend in frantic mood
His robe with regal woes embroider'd o'er.
Pale Terror leads the visionary band,

And sternly shakes his sceptre, dropping blood.

§ 58. On the Death of King George the Second.

T Warton.

So stream the sorrows that embalm the brave,
The tears that science sheds on glory's grave!
So pure the vows which classic duty pays
To bless another Brunswick's rising rays!

O Pitt, if chosen strains have power to steal
Thy watchful breast a while from Britain's weal,
If votive verse, from sacred Isis sent,
Might hope to charm thy manly mind, intent
On patriotic plans, which ancient freedom drew,
A while with fond attention deign to view
This ample wreath, which all th'assembled Nine
With skill united have conspir'd to twine.
Yes, guide and guardian of thy country's
cause!

Thy conscious heart shall hail with just applause
The duteous Muse, whose haste officious brings
Her blameless off 'ring to the shrine of kings:
Thy tongue, well tutor'd in historic lore,
Can speak her office and her use of yore:
For such the tribute of ingenuous praise
Her harp dispens'd in Grecia's golden days;
Such were the palms, in isles of old renown,
She cull'd, to deck the guiltless monarch's crown;

When virtuous Pindar told, with Tuscan gore
How sceptred Hiëro stain'd Sicilia's shore,
Or to mild Theron's raptur'd eye disclos'd
Bright vales, where spirits of the brave repos'd :
Yet still beneath the throne, unbrib'd, she sat,
The decent handmaid, not the slave, of state;
Pleas'd in the radiance of the regal name
To blend the lustre of her country's fame:
For, taught like ours, she dar'd with prudent
Obedience from dependence to divide : [pride
Though princes claini'd her tributary lays,
With truth severe she temper'd partial praise;
Conscious she kept her native dignity,
Bold as her flights, and as her nun ers free.

And sure if e'er the Muse indulg'd her strains,
With just regard to grace heroic reigns,
Where could her glance a theme of triumph own
So dear to fame as George's trophy'd throne?
At whose firm base thy stedfast soul aspires
To wake a mighty nation's ancient fires;
Aspires to baffle faction's specious claim,
Rouse England's rage, and give her thunder aim.
Once more the main her conqu'ring banners
sweep,

Again her commerce darkens all the deep.
Thy fix'd resolve renews each firm decree
That made, that kept of yore, thy country free.
Cail'd by thy voice, nor deaf to war's alarms,
Its willing youth the rural empire arms;
Again the lords of Albion's cultur'd plains
March the firm leaders of their faithful swains;
As erst stout archers, from the farm or fold,
Flam'd in the van of many a baron bold.

Nor thine the pomp of indolent debate,
The war of words, the sophistries of state;
Nor frigid caution checks thy free design,
Nor stops thy stream of eloquence divine:
For thine the privilege, on few bestow'd,
To feel, to think, to speak, for public good.
In vain Corruption calls her venal tribes:
One common cause, one common end pre-
scribes;

Nor fear nor fraud or spares or screens the foe, But spirit prompts, and valor strikes the blow.

O Pitt, while honor points thy lib'ral plan, And o'er the minister exalts the man, Isis congenial greets thy faithful sway, Nor scorns to bid a statesman grace her lay. For 'tis not hers, by false connexions drawn, At splendid slavery's sordid shrine to fawn ; Each native effort of the feeling breast To friends, to foes, in equal fear, supprest; "Tis not for her to purchase or pursue The phantom favors of the cringing crew; More useful toils her studious hours engage, And fairer lessons fill her spotless page: Beneath ambition, but above disgrace, With nobler arts she forms the rising race: With happier tasks, and less refin'd pretence, In elder times, she woo'd Munificence To rear her arched roofs in regal guise, And lift her temples nearer to the skies; Princes and prelates stretch'd the social hand To form, diffuse, and fix, her high commande

§ 60. On the Birth of the Prince of Wales. T. Warton.

Written after the Installation at Windsor, in the same Year.

IMPERIAL dome of Edward wise and brave! Where warlike Honor's brightest banners wave; At whose proud tilts, unmatch'd for hardy deeds, Heroic kings have frown'd on barbed steeds; Though now no more thy crested chiefs ad

vance

In arm'd array, nor grasp the glitt'ring lance; Though Knighthood boasts the martial pomp

no more

That grac'd its gorgeous festivals of yore;
Say, conscious Dome, if e'er thy marshall'd
knights

So nobly deck'd their old majestic rites
As when, high-thron'd amid thy trophy'd shrine,
George shone the leader of the garter'd line?
Yet future triumphs, Windsor, still remain;
Still may thy bow'rs receive as brave a train;
For lo! to Britain and her favor'd pair,
Heaven's high command has sent a sacred Heir!
Him the bold pattern of his patriot sire
Shall fill with early fame's inmortal fire;
In life's fresh spring, ere buds the promis'd prime,
His thoughts shall mount to virtue's meed sub-
lime:

The patriot fire shall catch, with sure presage,
Each lib'ral omen of his op'ning age;
Then to thy courts shall lead, with conscious joy,
In stripling beauty's bloom, the princely boy;
There firmly wreathe the braid of heavenly dye,
True valor's badge, around his tender thigh.

Meantime, thy royal piles that rise elate
With many an antique tow'r in massy state,
In the young champion's musing mind shall raise
Vast images of Albion's elder days;
While, as around his eager glance explores
Thy chambers, rough with war's constructed

stores,

Rude helms, and bruised shields, barbaric spoils
Of ancient chivalry's undaunted toils ;
Amid the dusky trappings hung on high,
Young Edward's sable mail shall strike his eye;
Shall fire the youth to crown his riper years
With rival Cressys, and a new Poictiers;
On the same wall, the same triumphal base,
His own victorious monuments to place.

Nor can a fairer kindred title move
His emulative age to glory's love
Than Edward, laureate prince. In letter'd truth,
Oxford, sage mother, school'd his studious youth:
Her simple institutes and rigid lore
The royal nursling unreluctant bore;
Nor shunn'd, at pensive eve, with lonesome pace,
The cloister's moon-light checquer'd floor to
trace;

Nor scorn'd to make the sun, at matins due, Stream through the storied window's holy hue. And oh, young Prince, be thine his moral praise;

Nor seek in fields of blood his warrior bays.

War has its charms terrific. Far and wide When stands th' embattled host in banner'd pride;

O'er the vext plain when the shrill clangors run,
And the long phalanx flashes in the sun :
When now no dangers of the deathful day
Mar the bright scene, nor break the firm array;
Full oft too rashly glows with fond delight
The youthful breast, and asks the future fight;
Nor knows that Horror's form, a spectre wan,
Stalks yet unseen along the gleamy van.

May no such rage be thine! no dazzling ray
Of specious fame thy stedfast feet betray!
Be thine domestic glory's radiant calm,
Be thine the sceptre wreath'd with many a
palm :
hung,
Be thine the throne with peaceful emblems
The silver lyre to milder conquests strung!

Instead of glorious feats achiev'd in arms, Bid rising arts display their mimic charms : Just to thy country's fame, in tranquil days, Record the past, and rouse the future praise: Before the public eye, in breathing brass, Bid thy fam'd father's mighty triumphs pass: Swell the broad arch with haughty Cuba's fall, And clothe with Minden's plain th' historic ball. [cient boast,

Then mourn not, Edward's Dome, thine an Thy tournaments and listed combats lost! From Arthur's Board, no more, proud castle,

mourn

Adventurous Valor's Gothic trophies torn!
Those elfin charms, that held in magic night
Its elder fame, and dimm'd its genuine light,
At length dissolve in Truth's meridian ray,
And the bright Order bursts to perfect day:
The mystic round, begirt with bolder peers,
On Virtue's base its rescued glory rears;
Sees civil Prowess mightier acts achieve;
Sees meek Humanity distress relieve;
Adopts the Worth that bids the conflict cease,
And claims its honors from the Chiefs of Peace.

§ 61. Ode to Sleep. T. WARTON.
On this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep!
Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to

weep,

And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.

O steep my senses in oblivion's balm, [hand;
And soothe my throbbing pulse with lenient
This tempest of my boiling blood becalm!
Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.

Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And sadly toiling through the tedious night,
I seek sweet slumber, while that virgin bloom,
For ever hov'ring, haunts my wretched sight.

Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:
Black midnight, and the radiant noon, alike
To-me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.

§ 62. The Hamlet, written in Whichwood Forest. T. WARTON.

THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild,
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight tinctur'd beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the sithe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear;
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue:"

In their lone haunts and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds;
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay:
Each native charm their steps explore
Of solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon with cloudless ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary spirits to relieve,

The meadows incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare
That o'er a glimm'ring hearth they share :
But when the curfew's measur'd roar
Duly, the dark'ning valleys o'er,
Has echo'd from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom
Of health around the clay-built room,
Or through the primros'd coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-mown hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine;
Or hasten from the sultry hill
To loiter at the shady rill;

Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest
To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honey'd flow'rs
The curling woodbine's shade embow'rs
From the trim garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound.
Nor fell Disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life's golden prime;
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flow'ry turf they sleep.

§63. Ode. The First of April. T. WARTON.
WITH dalliance rude young Zephyr woos
Coy May. Full oft with kind excuse
The boist'rous boy the Fair denies,
Or with a scornful smile complies.

Mindful of disaster past,
And shrinking at the northern blast,
The sleety storm returning still,
The morning boar and ev'ning chill;
Reluctant comes the timid Spring.
Scarce a bee, with airy ring,
Murmurs the blossom'd boughs around,
That clothe the garden's southern bound:
Scarce a sickly straggling flow'r
Decks the rough castle's rifted tow'r:
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled steeps:
O'er the field of waving broom
Slowly shoots the golden bloom:
And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the transitory gale;

While from the shrubb'ry's naked maze,
Where the vegetable blaze

Of Flora's brightest 'broidery shone,
Ev'ry chequer'd charm is flown;
Save that the lilac hangs to view
Its bursting gems in clusters blue.

Scant along the ridgy land

The beans their new-born ranks expand:
The fresh-turn'd soil with tender blades
Thinly the sprouting barley shades:
Fringing the forest's devious edge,
Half-rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge;
Or to the distant eye displays
Weakly green its budding sprays.

The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green:
From the grey moor, on feeble wing,
The screaming plovers idly spring:
The butterfly, gay-painted soon,
Explores awhile the tepid noon,
And fondly trusts its tender dyes
To fickle suns and flatt'ring skies.

Fraught with a transient, frozen show'r,
If a cloud should haply low'r,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark;
But when gleams the sun again
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his wat'ry veil
Looks through the thin-descending hail,
She mounts, and less'ning to the sight,
Salutes the blythe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.

Where in venerable rows
Widely waving oaks inclose
The moat of yonder antique hall,
Swarm the rooks with clam'rous call;
And, to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nests anew.

Musing through the lawny park,
The lonely poet loves to mark
How various greens in faint degrees
Tinge the tall groups of various trees :
While, careless of the changing year,
The pine cerulean, never sere,