When such their leader, can the brave despair? Success to your fair hopes! a British Muse, Tho' weak and powerless, lifts her fervent voice, She scatter blessings as the morn sheds dews, Will freedom deign to dwell; she must be seiz'd When the storm thickens, when the combat burns, And pain and death in every horrid shape That can appal the feeble, prowl around, Then virtue triumphs; then her tow'ring form And godlike action. 'Tis not meats, and drinks, Endear'd to long posterity, some Muse, More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate Shall bless the godlike man who sav'd his country. So vainly wish'd, so fondly hop'd the Muse: Too fondly hop'd. The iron fates prevail, And CYRNUS is no more. Her generous sons, [crush'd, Less vanquish'd than o'erwhelm'd, by numbers Admir'd, unaided fell. So strives the moon In dubious battle with the gathering clouds, And strikes a splendour thro' them; till at length Storms roll'd on storms involve the face of heaven And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal 'That, too presumptuous, whisper'd better things, And read the book of destiny amiss. Not with the purple colouring of success Is virtue best adorn'd: th' attempt is praise. Worthy of Gods: The freedom of the mind. THE INVITATION. TO MISS B*****. Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori, VIRGIL. HEALTH to my friend, and long unbroken years, Sweet beaming hope her path illumine still, And fair ideas all her fancy fill. From glittering scenes which strike the dazzled sight With mimic grandeur and illusive light, From idle hurry, and tumultuous noise, From hollow friendships, and from sickly joys, Will DELIA, at the Muse's call, retire To the pure pleasures rural scenes inspire? Where wreaths of curling smoke involve the sky, When winter's hand the rough'ning year deforms, And hollow winds fortel approaching storms, Then Pleasure, like a bird of passage, flies To brighter climes, and more indulgent skies : Cities and courts allure her sprightly train, From the bleak mountain and the naked plain; And gold and gems with artificial blaze, Supply the sickly sun's declining rays. But soon, returning on the western gale, She seeks the bosom of the grassy vale: There, wrapt in careless case, attunes her lyre To the wild warblings of the woodland quire: The daisied turf her humble throne supplies, And early primroses around her rise. We'll follow where the smiling goddess leads, Thro' tangled forests or enamel'd meads; O'er pathless hills her airy form we'll chase, In silent glades her fairy footsteps trace: |