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Ev'n now the languid mind opprest,

Droops under horrors damp and chill, Whilst heaves the sigh from the distended breast, Slow winds the tide of life along each azure rill. Arise, my Muse, the chorded shell prepare,

Awake the drowsy string; For thou canst lull the gathering storms of Care,

Thou canst disarm dire Envy of her sting, And smooth the haggard brow of fell Despair.

Ah strange reverse of honest joys!

The pale-ey'd fiend elate
Smiles, if Adversity annoys

Her neighbour's hapless, state.
Yet Spleen oppressive mars her chear,

And signs the bitter day :
For Envy drops the scalding tear,

When all the world is gay.
The tenant of some narrow mind,

She bids suspicion launch the dart;
Whilst all her secret powers combin'd

Excite the poignant smart. Slow halts Ill-nature in the rear,

That poisons as she probes the wound, And Rumor's noisome breath is near,

To waft the poison round.

Say, Theron, yet shall torpid Fear
Obstruct thy virtue's high career,

Shall Envy's menace wrest
Thy merit's well-directed aim,
And quench the noble thirst of fame
That warms thy youthful breast?

O no! pursue the glorious road
A Bacon, Hyde, and Osborne trod :
Her snaky head tho’ Envy rear,
Fame's eagle wing thy name shall bear

O’er black Oblivion's frozen sea,
Rank'd with great chiefs of old in immortality.

ODE XI.

TO

FANCY.

BY THE REV. J. MERRICK, M. A.

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Fancy, whose delusions vain
Sport themselves with human brain,
Rival thou of Nature's pow'r,
Canst, from thy exhaustless store,
Bid a tide of sorrow flow,
And whelm the soul in deepest woe:
Or, in the twinkling of an eye,
Raise it to mirth and jollity.
Dreams and shadows by thee stand,
Taught to run at thy command,
And along the wanton air
Flit like empty gossimer.
Thee, black Melancholy of yore
To the swift-wing'd Hermes bore;
From the mixture of thy line,
Different natures in thee join,
Which thou chusest to express
By the variance of thy dress.

Now like thy sire thou lov'st to seem, Light and gay with pinions trim, Dipt in all the dyes that glow In the bend of Iris's bow: Now like thy mother drear and sad, (All in mournful vestments clad, Cypress weeds and sable stole,) Thou rushest on th' affrighted soul. Oft I feel thee coming on, When the night hath reach'd her noon, And darkness, partner of her reign, Round the world hath bound her chain, Then with measur'd step and slow, In the church-yard path I go, And while my outward senses sleep, Lost in contemplation deep, Sudden I stop, and turn my ear, And list’ning hear, or think I hear. First a dead and sullen sound Walks along the holy ground; Then through the gloom alternate break Groans, and the shrill screech-owl's shriek. Lo! the moon hath hid her head, And the graves give up their dead : By me pass the ghastly crowds, Wrapt in visionary shrouds; Maids, who died with love forlorn, Youths, who fell by maiden's scorn, Helpless sires, and matrons old Slain for sordid thirst of gold,

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And babes, who owe their shorten'd date To cruel step-dames ruthless hate : Each their sev’ral errands go, To haunt the wretch that wrought their woe : From their sight the caitiff Alies, And his heart within him dies ; While a horror damp and chill Through his frozen blood doth thrill, And his hair for very dread Bears itself upon his head. When the early breath of day Hath made the shadows flee away ; Still possess’d by thee I rove Bosom'd in the shelt'ring grove, There, with heart and lyre new strung, Meditate the lofty song. And if thou my voice inspire, And with wonted frenzy fire, Aided by thee I build the rhyme, Such, as nor the flight of time, Nor wasting flame, nor eating show'r, Nor lightning's blast can e'er devour. Or if chance some moral page My attentive thoughts engage, On I walk, with silent tread, Under the thick-woven shade, While the thrush, unheeded by, Tunes her artless minstrelsy. List’ning to their sacred lore, I think on ages long past o'er,

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