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Nor deem that Albion's honours cease to bloom.
With candid glance, th' impartial Muse
Invok'd on this aufpicious morn,

The prefent fcans, the diftant fcene pursues,
And breaks Opinion's fpeculative gloom :
Interpreter of ages yet unborn,

Full right the fpells the characters of Fate,
That Albion ftill fhall keep her wonted state:
Still, in eternal ftory, fhine,

Of Victory the fea-beat shrine;

The fource of every fplendid art,
Of old, of future worlds the universal mart.

Sw

PERSIAN SONG.

By Sir WILLIAM JONES.

WEET Maid, if thou wouldst charm my fight,
And bid these arms thy neck enfold,
That roty cheek, that lily hand,

Would give thy poet more delight,
Than all Becara's vaunted gold,

Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy penfive heart be glad.
Whate'er the frowning zealots fay,

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Tell them their Eden cannot fhew
A ftream fo clear as Ronabad,
A bower fo fweet as Mofellay.

Oh! when thefe fair perfidious maids,
Whofe eyes our fecret haunts infeft,
Their dear deftructive charms display ;
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded foul of rest,

As Tartars feize their deftin'd prey.
In vain with love our bofoms glow,
Can all our tears, can all our fighs,
New luftre to thofe charms impart ?
Can cheeks where living rofes blow,
Where Nature fpreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd glofs of art!

Speak not of fate-ah!-change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,

Talk of the flowers that round us bloom;

'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream!

To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the facred gloom.

Beauty

Beauty has fuch refiftless power,
That even the chafte Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy;
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth fo lovely and fo coy.
But ah! fweet maid, my counsel hear,
(Youth fhould attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders fage,)
While mufic charms the ravish'd ear,
While fparkling cups delight our eyes,

Be gay, and fcorn the frowns of age.
What cruel anfwer have I heard!
And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet fay, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey fip?

Go boldly forth, my fimple lay,

Whofe accents flow with artless eafe, Like Orient pearls at random ftrung; Thy notes are fweet, the damfels fay; But, oh! far fweeter, if they pleafe

The nymph for whom thefe notes are fung.

SONG, in the COMEDY of the HEIRESS.

FOR

OR tenderness fafhion'd, in life's early day,
A parent's foft forrows, to mine led the way;
The leffon of pity was caught from her eye,
And ere I knew language, I spoke with a figh.
The nightingale plunder'd the mate-widow'd dove,
The warbled complaint of the futtering grove;
To youth, as it ripen'd, gave fentiment new :
The object ftill changing, the fympathy true.
Soft embers of paffions yet reft in their glow;
A warmth of more pain may this breast never know!
Or if too indulgent the bleffing I claim,

Let the fpark drop from reafon, that weakens the flame.

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[From HORACE, Book IV. Ode xI. by Mifs SEWARD.]}

S

WEET Phyllis leave thy quiet home,

For, lo! the ides of April come!

Then haften to my bower;

A cafk

A cafk of rich Albanian wine,
In nine years mellownefs, is mine,
To glad the fetal hour.

My garden herbs, in fragrance warm,
Our various chaplets wait to form,
My tender ivies grow,

That, twining in thy amber hair,
Give jocund fpirit to thine air,
And whitenefs to thy brow.

My walls with filver veffels fhine ;
Chafte vervain decks the modest shrine,
That longs with crimson stains
To fee its foliage fprinkled o'er,
When the devoted lamb fhall pour
The treasure of his veins.

Each houshold girl, and menial boy,
From room to room affiduous fly,
And bufy hands extend;

The numerous fires are quiv'ring bright,
And, rolling from their pointed height,
The dufky wreaths afcend.

Convivial rites in mystic state,

Thou, lovely nymph, fhalt celebrate,
And give the day to mirth,

Which this love-chofen month divides;
This day that deck'd its blooming ides
With dear Mæcenas' birth.

O! not by me my natal star

Is half fo priz'd!-Then, nymph, prepare
To grace its facred dawn;

A wealthier maid, in glitt'ring chains,
Thy noble Telephus detains,

From humble thee withdrawn.

IMITATION of HORACE, Book II. Ode xvI. by Mr.
HASTINGS, on his Paffage from BENGAL to ENGLAND.

[From the 2d Vol. of the AssYLUM for FUGITIVE PIECES.]
OR ease the harrafs'd feaman prays,
When Equinoctial tempefts raife,
The Cape's furrounding wave;
When hanging o'er the reef he hears,
The cracking maft, and fees or fears,
Beneath, his watry grave.

For

For ease, the flow Maratta fpoils,
And hardier Sic erratic toils,

While both their cafe forego;
For eafe, which neither gold can buy,
Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie,
The cover'd heart, below;

For neither gold, nor gems combin'd,
Can heal the foul, or fuffering mind,
Lo! where their owner lies,
Perch'd on his couch Diftemper breathes,
And Care like smoke, in turbid wreathes,
Round the gay ceiling flies.

He who enjoys nor covets more,
The lands his father held before,
Is of true blifs poffefs'd:
Let but his mind unfetter'd tread,
Far as the paths of knowledge lead,
And wife, as well as bleft.
No fears his peace of mind annoy,
Left printed lies his fame destroy,

Which labour'd years have won ;
Nor pack'd committees break his rest,
Nor avarice fends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the fun.

Short is our span, then why engage
In fchemes, for which man's transient age,
Was ne'er by fate defign'd;
Why flight the gifts of Nature's hand,
What wanderer from his native land,
E'er left himself behind?

The reftlefs thought, and wayward will,
And difcontent attend him still,

Nor quit him while he lives;
At fea, care follows in the wind,
At land, it mounts the pad behind,
Or with the poft-boy drives.
He who would happy live to day,
Muft laugh the prefent ills away,

Nor think of woes to come;
For come they will, or foon or late,
Since mix'd at best is man's estate,
By Heaven's eternal doom.

To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd,

With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd,
His valour's well-earn'd meed;

Too long, alas! he liv'd to hate
His envied lot, and died, too late,
From life's oppreffion freed.

An

An early death, was Elliott's doom,
I faw his op'ning virtues bloom,
And manly fense unfold;

Too foon to fade! I bade the stone,

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Record his name 'midst Hordes unknown,
Unknowing what it told.

To thee, perhaps, the fates may give,
I wish they may, in health to live,

Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields;
Thy vacant hours in mirth to fhine,
With thefe the mufe already thine,
Her prefent bounties yields.
For me, O Shore, I only claim,
To merit, not to feek for fame,

The good and just to please;

A ftate above the fear of want,

Domestic love, Heaven's choiceft grant,
Health, leifure, peace, and ease.

ODE for his MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, by the Rev. T. WARTON, B. D. Poet Laureat.

W

HEN Freedom nurs'd her native fire
In ancient Greece, and rul'd the lyre;
Her bards, difdainful, from the tyrant's brow
The tinfel gifts of flattery tore ;

But paid to guiltlefs power their willing vow:
And to the throne of virtuous kings,
Tempering the tone of their vindictive ftrings,
From truth's unprostituted-fhore,

The fragant wreath of gratulation bore.

'Twas thus Alceus fmote the manly chord;
And Pindar on the Perfian lord

His notes of indignation hurl'd,

And spurn'd the minitrel-flaves of eastern sway,
From trembling Thebes extorting confcious flame;
But o'er the diadem, by Freedom's flame

Illum d, the banner of renown unfurl'd:

Thus to his Hiero decreed,

'Mongft the bold chieftains of the Pythian game,
The brighteft verdure of Caftaha's bay;

And gave an ampler meed

Mr. Elliott died in October 1778, in his way to Naugpore, the capital of Mood ajee Boola's dominions, being deputed on an embafly to that prince, by the governor general and council; a monument was erected to his memory, on the fpot where he was buried; and the Marattas have fince built a town there, called Elliott Gunge, or Elliott's town.

1786.

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