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He, with a hundred arts refin'd,
15 Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind : To him each rival shall submit,
Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace,
(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face : His house, embosom'd in the
grove, Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary scene : Thither, the silver-sounding lyres
25 Shall call the smiling loves, and young desires ; There, ev'ry grace and muse shall throng,
Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There youths and nymphs, in consort gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting day. 30 With
alas ! those joys are o'er ;
The still believing, still-renew'd desire ;
35 But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my cheek, th' involuntary tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,
Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? 40 Thee, drest in fancy's airy beam, Absent I follow through th' extended dream;
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms,
And now you burst (ah cruel !) from my arms ; And swiftly shoot along the Mall,
Or softly glide by the canal, Now shown by Cinthia’s silver ray,
And now, on rolling waters snatch'd away.
PART OF THE NINTH ODE
OF THE FOURTH BOOK.
should think that verse shall die, Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song ;
Tho' daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play ; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay –
Sages and chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæsar was, or Newton nam’d; Those rais'd new empires o'er the earth,
And These, new heav'ns and systems fram'd.
Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!
They had no poet, and they dy'd.
They had no poet, and are dead.
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
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