Nor Wealth nor Knowledge grant the boon, 'Tis thine, O Virtue, thine alone, It all belongs to thee. "Blest in thy smiles the Shepherd lives, Gay in his morn, his evening gives To sage, or chief one weary void Is all that life bestows. "Then wouldst thou, Mortal, rise divine? Let innocence of soul be thine, With active goodness join'd: Thy heart shall then confess thee blest, The pleasures of the mind. "So spake the Sage; my heart reply'd: How poor, how blind is human pride! All joy how false and vain, But that from conscious Worth which flows, Which gives the death-bed sweet repose, And hopes an after reign." ODE XXVI. то LIBERTY. BY JOSEPH WARTON, D. D. O GODDESS, on whose steps attend Who mad'st her wise, and strong, and fair, For thee, the pining prisoner mourns, By Christian lords to labour sent, Inspir'd by thee, deaf to fond Nature's cries, Stern Brutus, when Rome's Genius loudly spoke, Gave her the matchless filial sacrifice, Nor turn'd, nor trembled at the dreadful stroke! And he of later age, but equal fame, Dar'd stab the tyrant, tho' he lov'd the friend. How burn the Spartan with warm patriot-flame, In thy great cause his valorous life to end! How burst Gustavus from the Swedish mine! Like light from chaos dark, eternally to shine. When heaven to all thy joys bestows, Around whose throne stands trembling Doubt, Where trampling Tyranny with Fate Tho' rivers roll o'er golden sand: Britannia, watch !—remember peerless Rome, Her high-tower'd head dash'd meanly to the ground; Remember, Freedom's guardian, Graecia's doom, Whom weeping the despotic Turk has bound: May ne'er thy oak-crown'd hills, rich meads and downs, (Fame, Virtue, Courage, Poverty, forgot) Thy peaceful villages, and busy towns, Be doom'd some death-dispensing tyrant's lot; On deep foundations may thy freedom stand, Long as the surge shall lash thy sea-encircled land. ODE XXVII. ΤΟ LIBERTY. BY THE REV. MR. HUDSON. THE sable Queen of shades retires, Encircled with her fading fires; Yok'd to her iron car, the dragons fly, With slow wing blackening many a league of sky. Go melancholy Goddess, go, Nurse of despondency and woe. 'Tis time, the cock's shrill clarion calls The dawn, and strikes the prowling wolf with fear, And bids the phantoms disappear, That glimmer 'midst yon mouldring walls: They startle at the sound, And gliding o'er the trackless ground, Loth, to their marble mansions haste away. No more their livid lightnings play; The terrors of aërial tumults cease, For, lo! in heaven's ambrosial bowers, |