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Epist. XII.

EPISTLES DESCRIPTIVE, &c.

108

Last, Winter comes to rule the year

In sweet vicissitude severe.

See him on Zembla's mountains stand,
He stretches out his palsied hand,
And all his magazines unfold

Their copious hoards of ice and cold:
The hail, in vollies rattles round,

The snow descending, shrouds the ground:
Deep bellowing bursts of thunders roll,
And pleasing horror swells the soul,
With still improv'd delight, the mind
Beholds her powers unconfin'd,
She roves with Nature, and explains
What virtues live in secret veins
Of herbs; bids Flora's children rise
In naked beauty to her eyes,
To the soft serenade of gales

Thro' ocean's liquid realms she sails,
Thro' pearly worlds, thro' coral groves,
Where every scaly wonder roves:

With Phoebus, in his chariot driv❜n,
She journies thro' the expanse of heav'n;
Now rolling round on Saturn's ring,
Now roving on the comet's wing,
And urging still her airy flight,
She gains those smiling realms of light,
Where sons of bliss, Immortals dwell,
In golden groves of asphodel.
Now conscious of celestial skill,

Her forming pow'r she tries at will,

Her pencil weds assenting dies,

And see a new-born world arise.

Here charms the eye the blossom'd grove,
Where, looking bliss, young Lovers rove;
There serpentine the river glides,
And nibbling flocks adorn its sides.
Soft'ning to flesh the marble lives,
And takes each attitude she gives :
Here nerv'd to strength the Hero stands,
There Orators extend their hands,
The Patriot here, by Freedom's sidę,
Smiling pours out the vital tide;
Here Beauty charms the gazing eye,
The Loves and Graces waiting by :
Is it the breeze that wakes the Spring,
Or say, does Philomela sing,
And bid the list'ning ear rejoice?
'Tis music tunes her heav'nly voice,
Her voice of sweetest skill to raise
The drooping heart ten thousand ways.
Now heav'n-caught fury fires the soul,
And spurning oft earth's dull control,
Vent'rous she wings her full-plum'd flight,
Detects new regions of delight;

Led by th' enchantress Fancy roves,
The Muses' gay ideal groves,

Where countless beings strike her eye,
Confus'd in glitt❜ring novelty:
But what the varied years delight,

Or what the mental ken so bright,

Or what the kind inspiring Muses,

To bliss that genuine love transfuses!
The parent fond impassion'd flow,
The filial duteous grateful glow,
Congenial friendship, heav'nly true,
And pity pressing balmy dew.
The feast of converse, that dispenses
Rapture to fill up all the senses,
Where Reason, Mirth, good Humor sit,
And Beauty sparkles into wit.
Here too, as in the natural scene,
Triumphs the Mind, creative queen,
Here Fancy, with illusion kind,
Indulges ev'ry longing mind,
Brings to the Lover, in despair
His mutually impassion'd Fair,
Adorns the frightful female face
With beauties cull'd from every Grace;
Instructs Ambition's slave to nod,
And bids the reptile soar a God,
Applauds the Bard's prosaic songs,
Gives eloquence to stamm'ring tongues,
Lets Ocean's sons their haven gain,
Unbinds the Captive's galling chain ;
To Poverty each joy bestows,
From rich Humantity that flows,
Gives her at once herself to bless,
And charm the Virtues in distress,
Yet still reserves the sapient Mind,
Her darling free-born joy behind,

When with fond eyes she loves to trace
The beauties of her moral race,
And with blithe confidence can say,
She liv'd with Virtue ev'ry day,
That still she urg'd life's great design,
To fit herself for bliss divine;

Then Conscience lends the plausive note,
Thro' ev'ry sense of joy to float,
Strikes music from each vital string,
That envies not when Angels sing;

Dissolv'd in extasy she lies,

And sweetly pre-enjoys the skies.

EPISTLE XIII.

WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE AT

PARK-PLACE.

The Seat of the Right Hon.

GENERAL CONWAY,

BY THE REV. MR. POWYS.

THE works of Art let others praise,
Where Pride her waste of wealth betrays,
And Fashion, independent grown,
Usurps her parent Nature's throne,
Lays all her fair dominions waste,
And calls the devastation Taste.
But I-who ne'er, with servile awe,

Give Fashion's whims the force of law,
Scorn all the glitter of expence,

When destitute of use and sense.

More pleas'd to see the wanton rill,
Which trickles from some craggy hill,
Free thro' the valley wind its way,
Than when, immur'd in walls of clay,
It strives in vain its bonds to break,
And stagnates in a crooked lake.

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