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Each scene, that Tiber's bank supply'd;
Each grace, that play'd on Arno's fide;
Were still thine own: thy ample mind
Each charm receiv'd, retain'd, combin'd.
Recall’d the long-lost beams of grace;
That whilom shot from Nature's face,
O DE II.
ERE, on my native shore reclin’d,
While Silence rules this midnight hour,
Descend, propitious Power!
Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent prayer,
No zone thy floating vest.
As now o'er this lone beach I stray;
And artless wove his Doric lay,
* Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston upon Hull in the year
Thou heard'At him, Goddess, strike the tender string,
Pointed with Satire's keeneft steel,
And shrinks beneath the wound:
In awful poverty his honest Muse
* Parker, Bishop of Oxford.
Behold, like him, immortal Maid,
Propitious wave thy wing,
« And all the vernal sweets thy vacant Youth