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"To arts like these devote thy tuneful toil,

"And meet its fair reward in D'ARCY's fmile."

VII.

« 'Tis he, my Son, alone fhall chear
Thy fickning foul; at that fad hour,
"When o'er a much-lov'd Parent's bier,

Thy duteous Sorrows shower:

"At that fad hour, when all thy hopes decline;
"When pining Care leads on her pallid train,
"And fees thee, like the weak, and widow'd Vine,
Winding thy blasted tendrills o'er the plain.
"At that fad hour fhall D'ARCY lend his aid,

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"And raise with Friendship's arm thy drooping head.

VIII.

"This fragrant wreath, the Muses meed,
"That bloom'd thofe vocal fhades among,

"Where never Flatt'ry dar'd to tread,
"Or Intereft's fervile throng;

"Receive,

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"Receive, my favor'd Son, at my command,

"And keep, with facred care, for D'ARCY's brow:

"Tell him, 'twas wove by my immortal hand, "I breath'd on every flower a purer glow;

"Say, for thy fake, I send the gift divine

"To him, who calls thee HIS, yet makes thee MINE."

ODE

14

ODE III.

On MELANCHOLY.

TO A FRIEND.

A

I.

H! cease this kind perfuafive ftrain,

Which, when it flows from Friendship's tongue,

However weak, however vain,

O'erpowers beyond the Siren's fong:

Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,

And let me mufe upon my woe.

Why

Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these penfive fweets?
Can Mufick's voice, can Beauty's eye,

Can Painting's glowing hand, fupply
A charm fo fuited to my mind,

As blows this hollow guft of wind,

As drops this little weeping rill

Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill,

While thro' the weft, where finks the crimson Day,

Meek Twilight flowly fails, and waves her banners grey?

II.

Say, from Afflictions various fource

Do none but turbid waters flow?

And cannot Fancy clear their course?

For Fancy is the friend of Woe.

Say, mid that grove, in love-lorn state,

When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all, that meets the fhepherd's ear,

Infpir'd by anguish, and despair?

Ah

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Ah no, fair Fancy rules the Song:

She fwells her throat; fhe guides her tongue;

She bids the waving Afpin-spray

Quiver in Cadence to her lay;

She bids the fringed Ofiers bow,

And ruftle round the lake below,

To fuit the tenor of her gurgling fighs,

And footh her throbbing breaft with folemn fympathies.

III.

To thee, whofe young and polish'd brow

The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares;

Whose cheeks, beftrew'd with rofes, know

No channel for the tide of tears;

To thee yon Abbey dank, and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mould'ring ftone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May caft a formidable gloom.

Yet Some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander thro' the cloyfters drear,

Could

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