And while around her ports rejoice,
While all her sons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed.
ODE XI. THE MANNERS.
FAREWEL, for clearer ken design'd, The dim-discover'd tracks of mind, Truths which, from Action's paths retir'd, My silent search in vain requir❜d. No more my sail that deep explores, No more I search those magic shores, What regions part the world of soul, Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll: If e'er I round such fairy field, Some pow'r impart the spear and shield At which the wizard Passions fly, By which the giant Follies die!
Farewel the porch whose roof is seen Arch'd with th' enliv'ning olive's green; Where Science, prank'd in tissu❜d vest, By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest, Comes like a bride, so trim array'd, To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade! Youth of the quick uncheated sight, Thy walks, Observance, more invite.
O thou! who lov'st that ampler range
Where Life's wide prospects round thee change,
And with her mingled sons ally'd
Throw'st the prattling page aside,
To me in converse sweet impart,
To read in man the native heart;
To learn, where Science sure is found,
From Nature as she lives around,
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view,
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the lessons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule
To dream in her enchanted school.
Thou, heaven! whate'er of great we boast,
Hast blest this social science most.
Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the charmful task
In pageant quaint, in motley mask.
Behold! before her musing eyes
The countless Manners round her rise,
While, ever varying as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-rob'd maids combine,
And those the laughing Satyrs join.
But who is he whom now she views
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the Passions nurs'd I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humour! thou whose name is known
To Britain's favour'd isle alone,
Me too, amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos❜d attends thy side.
By old Miletus*, who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids
In chang'd Italia's modern shades;
By him whose Knight's distinguish'd namef
Refin❜d a nation's lust of fame,
Whose tales e'en now with echoes sweet
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;
* Alluding to the Milesian Tales, some of the earliest romances.
Or him whom Seine's blue nymphs deploreț
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore,
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid
By virtues in her sire betray'd:
O Nature boon! from whom proceed Each forceful thought, each prompted deed, If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind;
The sports and I this hour agree
To rove thy scene-full world with thee!
WHEN Music, heavenly Maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting,
Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive pow'r.
First Fear, his hand its skill to try,'
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings;
In rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air!
"Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
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