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OTHER OF WISDOM! thou, whose fway

The throng'd ideal hosts obey ;
Who bidft their ranks, now vanilh, now appear,
Flame in the van, or darken in the rear :

Accept this votive verse. Thy reign
Nor place can fix, nor power restrain :

* According to a fragment of Afranius, who makes Experience and Memory the parents of Wisdom.

Usus me genuit, Mater peperit MEMORIA,

YOQIAN vocant me Graii, vos SAPIENTIAM. The Passage is preserv'd by Aulus Gellius, Lib. XIII. Cap. 8.

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All all is thine. For thee the ear,
Rove thro' the realms of Grace, and Harmony:

The Senses thee spontaneous serve,

That wake, and thrill thro' every nerve. Else vainly foft, lov’d Philomel! would flow The soothing sadness of thy warbled woe:

Else vainly sweet yon woodbine shade

With clouds of fragrance fill the glade; Vainly, the cygnet spread her downy plume, The vine gush nectar, and the virgin bloom.

But swift to thee, alive, and warm,

Devolves each tributary charm :
See modest Nature bring her simple stores,
Luxuriant Art exhaust her plastic powers;

While every flower in Fancy's clime,

Each gem of old heroic Time,
Culld by the hand of the industrious Muse,
Around thy shrine their blended beams diffuse.

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Hail, MEM'R Y! hail. Behold I lead

To that high shrine the sacred Maid; Thy daughter she, the Empress of the lyre, The first, the faireft, of Aonia's quire.

She comes, and lo, thy realms expand !

She takes her delegated stand
Full in the midst, and o'er thy num'rous train
Displays the awful wonders of her reign.

There thron'd supreme in native state,

If Sirius flame with fainting heat,
She calls; ideal groves their shade extend,
The cool gale breaths, the filent show’rs descend :

Or, if bleak Winter, frowning round,

Disrobe the trees, and chill the ground,
She, mild Magician, waves her potent wand;
And ready summers meet her wing'd command.

See, visionary Suns arise,
Mid silver clouds, and azure skies;


See, sportive Zephyrs fan the crisped streams ;
Thro' shadowy brakes light glance the fparkling beams :

While, near the secret mofs-grown cave,

That stands beside the crystal wave, Sweet Eccho, rising from her rocky bed, Mimics the feather'd Chorus o'er her head.


Rise, hallow'd MILTON! rise, and say,

How, at thy gloomy close of Day;
How, when « deprest by Age, beset with wrongs;
When « fall’n on evil days and evil tongues ;

When Darkness, brooding on thy fight,

Exild the fov’raign lamp of light:
Say, what could then one chearing hope diffuse?
What friends were thine, fave Mem'ry and the Muse?

Hence the rich fpoils, thy studious youth

Caught from the stores of antient Truth: Hence all thy busy eye cou'd pleas'd explore, When Rapture led thee to the Latian shore;


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