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To MR. THOMSON,

On his unfinished Plan of a POEM, called the CASTLE OF INDOLENCE, in Spenfer's Style.

MORRELL.

By DR.

I.

AS

S when the filk-worm, erft the tender care
Of Syrian maidens, 'gins for to unfold
From his fleek fides, that now much fleeker are
The gloffy treasure, and foft threads of gold;
In various turns, and many a winding fold,
He spins his web, and as he fpins decays;
Till, within circles infinite enroll'd,
He refts fupine, imprison'd in the maze,

The which himself did make, the gathering of his days.

II.

So thou, they say, from thy prolific brain, A castle, hight of indolence, didst raise ; Where listless sprites, withouten care or pain, In idle pleasaunce spend their jocund days, Nor heed rewardful toil, nor feeken praise. Thither thou didst repair in luckless hour; And lulled with thine own enchanting lays, Didft lie adown, entranced in the bower, The which thyfelf didft make, the gathering of thy power. III. But

III.

But Venus, fuffering not her favourite worm
For aye to fleepen in his filky tomb,
Instructs him to throw off his priftine form,
And the gay features of a fly affume;

When, lo! eftfoons from the furrounding gloom,
He vigorous breaks, forth iffuing from the wound
His horny beak had made, and finding room,
On new-plum'd pinions flutters all around,
And buzzing speaks his joy in most expreffive found.
IV.

So may the God of Science and of Wit,
With pitying eye ken thee his darling fon;
Shake from thy fatty fides the flumberous fit,
In which, alas! thou art fo woe begon!
Or with his pointed arrows goad thee on;
Till thou refeelest life in all thy veins;
And, on the wings of Resolution,

Like thine own hero dight, fliest o'er the plains, Chauncing his peerless praise in never-dying strains.

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BRITANNIA.

A

POE M.

Et tantas audetis tollere moles? "Quos ego-fed motos præftat componere fluctus. "Poft mihi non fimili pœna commissa luetis. "Maturate fugam, regique hæc dicite veftro : "Non illi imperium pelagi, fævumque tridentem, "Sed mihi forte datum"

S on the fea-beat shore Britannia fat,

As

Of her degenerate fons the faded fame,

Deep in her anxious heart, revolving fad :

Bare was her throbbing bofom to the gale,

VIRG.

That hoarfe, and hollow, from the bleak furge blew; 5 Loose flow'd her treffes; rent her azure robe.

10

Hung o'er the deep from her majestic brow
She tore the laurel, and she tore the bay.
Nor ceas'd the copious grief to bathe her cheek;
Nor ceas'd her fobs to murmur to the main.
Peace difcontented nigh, departing, ftretch'd
Her dove-like wings, And War, though greatly rous'd,
Yet mourns his fetter'd hands. While thus the
Of nations spoke: and what she said the Muse
Recorded, faithful, in unbidden verfe.
S 4

queen

Ev'n

Ev'n not yon fail, that, from the sky-mixt wave,
Dawns on the fight, and wafts the Royal Youth
A freight of future glory to my fhore;
Ev'n not the flattering view of golden days,
And rifing periods yet of bright renown,
Beneath the Parents, and their endless line
Through late revolving time, can footh my rage;
While, unchaftis'd, th' infulting Spaniard dares
Infeft the trading flood, full of vain war
Defpife my navies, and my merchants feize;
As, trusting to false peace, they fearless roam
The world of waters wild; made, by the toil,
And liberal blood of glorious ages, mine:

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25

Nor bursts my fleeping thunder on their head.
Whence this unwonted patience? this weak doubt? 30
This tame befeeching of rejected peace?
This meek forbearance? this unnative fear,
To generous Britons never known before ?
And fail'd my fleets for this; on Indian tides

To float, unactive, with the veering winds?

35

The mockery of war! while hot disease,

And floth distemper'd, swept off burning crowds,
For action ardent; and amid the deep,
Inglorious, funk them in a watery grave.

There now they lie beneath the rolling flood,
Far from their friends, and country unaveng'd;
And back the drooping war-fhip comes again,
Difpirited, and thin; her fons asham'd
* Frederick.

40

Thus

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