Disco fub antro:

Et qualis fummus Jupiter,

Inter Gentiles Deos,

Talis eminet inter cæteros Poetas
Publius Virgilius Maro.

UNDER HIS ECLOGUES AND GEORGICS,
BY THE CASCADE.

HERE Maro refts beneath the fragrant shade,
Lull'd by the murmurs of the foft cascade :
Ye shepherds, carol here your lays of love,
While paftoral mufic dies along the grove:
Ye fwains, inftructed by his grateful theme,
His praises whistle to the tinkling stream:
Ye bees, around your tuneful mafter throng,
And, humming in delight, his dreams prolong.
But hence the trumpet's clang, the din of war;
The thunder of the battle hence be far:
His bees, fwains, fhepherds more contentment
Than heroes blazing in the tented field.

[yield,

Arms and the man I fing" let others choose,
Give me the products of his rural muse.

BENEATH A VINE, UNDER A PICTURE
OF HORACE.

BaING hither, friend, O hither bring
The lyre, and let us fit and fing:
Wake into life the dying flute,
The Thracian harp, or Lydian lute:
Horace commands; O quickly bring the lyre
For Horace, mafter of the Roman choir.

+ With rosebuds grace the poet's brow,
With odours bid his ringlets flow;
'Thefe lilies crop and ftrew the ground;
And let my temples too be crown'd.
O fill the bowl beneath this mantling vine,
For Horace, arbiter of verfe and wine!
With focial joys we raise the hour,
But banish Cupid from the bower:

Seven luftres paft, ah! why fhould I,
And why should Horace pine and figh?
No more he beckons Pyrrha to the grot,
His Lydia, my lanthe, both forgot.
True; Lydia revell'd in his veins,
And fweet lanthe warm'd my trains:
But age fhould youthful follies fhun,
Nor back the flowery mazes run.
Let wit to widom, love to friendship rife,
And learn, at laft, from Horace to grow wife.

OVER THOMSON'S SEASONS.

Lo! Thonifon deigns to grace the bower I made,
And dwell a tuneful tenant of my shade!
Hail, Nature's poet! whom he taught alone
To fing her works in number's like her own,

Sweet as the Thrush, that warbles in the vale,
And foft as Philomela's tender tale;
She lent her pencil too, of wondrous power,
To catch the rainbow, or to form the flower
Of many mingling hues; and smiling said,
(But first with laurel crown'd her favourite's
head)
[Chine,
"These beauteous children. though fo fair they
"Fade in my Seafons, let them live in thine:
"And live they fhall, the charm of every eye,
"Till nature fickens, and the Seasons die."

IN THE MIDST OF AN APPLE-TREE,
OVER MR. PHILIPS'S CYDER.

Ir he, who first the apple fung," the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whofe mortal tafte
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,"
Unfading laurels won; a branch awaita,
Philips, thy youthful brow: who apples fung
Innocuous, and with freedom bade us quaff
Their generous ne&ar, 'neath their parent fhade,
Advent'rous; nor in lefs inferior trains.
Like Milton too, you taught Britannia's fong
To shake the fhackles off of tinkling rhyme,
Emafculate, unnervous; female verfe.
Since modefty (Atill modefty attends
On worth like thine) for bids thee to accept
The parted wreath, let Milton's be the first,
Unrivall'd; be the fecond honours thine.
And now (for Leo, from his flaming mane,
Shakes fultry rays intenfe, provoking thirst)
O Philips, while my well-glaz'd tube exhales
Nicotian fragrance, and my rummer shines
With cyder fparkling high, partake my shade,
Pleas'd with Pomona's haunts and cool recefs,
Her purple-breathing births sweet-fmiling round.

OVER YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS.
BENEATH an awful gloom, a night of shade,
By filent darkness more majestic made,

I place thy volume, Young! with reverence place;
Thy volume worthy of a faint's embrace!
What golpel truths thy heavenly lines convey,
And freal us from mortality away!
Full on the foul thy tides of rapture flow,
Kindling we hear, and while we read we glow!
Exalted by thy theme, we mount on high,
We fpurn at earth, we claim our native sky.
Now let th' unletter'd, or the letter'd man,
Deny the foul immortal, if he can ;
A foul inmortal in thy works we fee;
Can duft and athes think and write like thee?
Yes, fools! the foul shall live, for God is juft;
Ye atheilts, ye old ferpents, lick the duft.
Through depths of ether now his eagle flies,
Gains on the fun, and traverses the fries,
Where ftars on itars, on planets planets roll,
Imbibes their fplendours, and commands the pole.
Onward he bears; and, burning, foars away
(Nor flag his pinions) to myfterious day:
O Newton, far beyond thy highest sphere;
Purfue my foul no further.-Heaven is here:
Opprefs'd with glory, all my fenfes fade,
I faint-O foftly lay me in his fhade.