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Each scene, that Tiber's bank supply'd;

Each grace, that play'd on Arno's fide;
The tepid gales, thro' Tuscan glades that Ay;
The blue Serene, that spreads Hesperia’s sky;

Were still thine own: thy ample mind

Each charm receiv'd, retain'd, combin'd.
And thence “ the nightly Visitant ", that came
To touch thy bosom with her facred flame,

Recall’d the long-lost beams of grace;

That whilom shot from Nature's face,
When GOD, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast
Spread with his own right hand Perfection's gorgeous Vest.

ODE

.

8

O DE II.

TO INDEPENDENCY.

I.

HERE,

ERE, on my native shore reclin’d,

While Silence rules this midnight hour,
I woo thee, GODDESS. On my musing mind

Descend, propitious Power!
And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside:
Bid my calm’d soul with all thy influence fhine;
As yon chast Orb along this ample tide
Draws the long lustre of her filver line,
While the hush'd breeze its last weak whisper blows,
And lulls old HUMBER to his deep repose.

II. Come

II.

Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent prayer,
In all thy graceful plainness drest;
No knot confines thy waving hair,

No zone thy floating vest.
Unsullied Honor decks thine open brow,
And Candor brightens in thy modest eye:
Thy blush is warm Content's ätherial glow,
Thy smile is Peace; thy step is Liberty:
Thou scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand,
As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land.

III.

As now o'er this lone beach I stray;
* Thy fav’rite Swain oft stole along,

And artless wove his Doric lay,
Far from the busy throng.

* Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston upon Hull in the year

1620. B

Thou

Thou heard'At him, Goddess, strike the tender string,
And badst his soul with bolder passions move:
Strait thefe responsive shores forgot to ring,
With Beauty's praise, or plaint of Nighted Love;
To loftier flights his daring Genius rose,
And led the war, 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes.

IV.

Pointed with Satire's keeneft steel,
The shafts of Wit he darts around;
Ev’n * mitred Dulness learns to feel,

And shrinks beneath the wound:

In awful poverty his honest Muse
Walks forth vindictive thro' a venal land:
In vain Corruption sheds her golden dews,
In vain Oppression lifts her iron hand;
He scorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone,
Bids Lust and Folly tremble on the throne.

* Parker, Bishop of Oxford.

V. Be

y.

Behold, like him, immortal Maid,
The Muses vestal fires I bring:
Here at thy feet the sparks I fpread;

Propitious wave thy wing,
And fan them to that dazzling blaze of Song,
That glares tremendous on the Sons of Pride.
But, hark, methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue !
In diftant trills it ecchoes o'er the tide;
Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free,
As swells the Lark’s meridian ecstacy.

VI.
« Fond Youth! to MARVELL's patriot fame,
« Thy humble breast must ne’er aspire.
6. Yet nourish still the lambent flame;
o Still strike thy blameless Lyre:
« Led by the moral Muse fecurely rove;

« And all the vernal sweets thy vacant Youth
Can cull from busy Fancy's fairy grove,
« O hang their foliage round the fane of Truth:

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