Till the fad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, circled coaft III. I. Far from the fun and fummer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling * laid, What time, where lucid Avon ftray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and fmil'd. This pencil take (fhe faid) whofe colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy ; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the facred fource of fympathetic Tears. III. 2. Nor fecond he *, that rode fublime Upon the feraph-wings of Ecftafy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pafs'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living throne, the fapphire blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, * Milton. + " flammantia monia mundi." LUCRETIUS. For the fpirit of the living creature was in the wheels.-And above the firmament that was over their heads, was the likeness of a throne, as the appearance of a fapphire ftone.- -This was the appearance of the glory of the Lord. Ezekiel i. 20. 26. 28. He faw; but, blafted with excess of light, *Clos'd his eyes in endless night, Behold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two courfers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long refounding pace, III. 3. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-ey'd Fancy, hov'ring o'er, * Οφθαλμῶν μεν αμερσε· δίδως δ ̓ ἡδεῖαν ἀοιδὴν Ном. Од. + Meant to exprefs the stately march and founding energy of Dryden's rhymes. Haft thou clothed his neck with thunder? Јов, Scatters Scatters from her pictur'd urn * Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. † But ah! 'tis heard no more Oh! Lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with fupreme dominion Through the azure deep of air : * Words that weep, and tears that speak. COWLEY. + We have had in our language no other odes of the fublime kind, than that of Dryden on St. Cecilia's day: for Cowley, who had his merit, yet wanted judgement, style, and harmony, for such a task. That of Pope is not worthy of fo great a man. Mr. Mafon indeed, of late days has touched the true chords, and with a masterly hand, in some of his choruses,—above all in the last of Cara&tacus: Hark! heard ye not yon footstep dread? &c. * Διὸς πρὸς ὄρνιχα θεῖον. Olymp. 2. Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his enemies to ravens that croak and clamour in vain below, while it pursues its flight, regardless of their noise. Yet |