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Hide yon deluded agonizing train,
Who bleed by thousands on the purple plain ;
Their piercing cries, their dying groans controul,
And lock up all the feelings of his soul.
Shield him from lander's perfecuting race,
Who seek to wound, and labour to disgrace,
Who view the humblest worth with jealous eye,
The viper brood of black malignity!
So fall, perchance, content with thee return,
'Mongst vernal sweets to raise his wintry urn;
To his retreat tranquillity repair,
“ And freedom dwell a pentive hermit there."

Hoyle Lake, a Poem, written on that Coast, and addressed to its

PROPRIETOR, SIR JOHN STANLEY. [From LLANGOLLEN Vale, with other Poems, by Anna Seward.)

HEE, Stanley, thee, our gladden'd spirit hails,

Since life's first good for us thy efforts gain,
Who, habitants of Albion's inland vales,

Reside far distant from her circling main.


These light some walls, beneath thy generous cares

Arofe, the lawny scene's convivial boast,
While at thy voice clear-cheek'd Hygeia rears
Her aqueous altars on this tepid coast.
This coaft, the nearest to our central home,

That green Britannia's watry zone displays,
Now gives the drooping frame a cheerful dome*,

Whose lares t smile, and promise lengthen'd days.

When gather'd fogs the pale horizon steep,

Falling in heavy, deep, continual rain,
If, ere the sun link shrouded in the deep,

His crystal rays pervade the vapory train,
Dry are the tufty downs, diffufive spread

O'er the light surface of the sandy mound,
Where e'en the languid form may safely tread,

Drink the pure gale, and eye the blue profound.

Dear scene!--that stretch'd between the filver arms

Of Deva, and of Mersey, meets the main,
And when the sun-gilt day illumes its charms,

Boasts of peculiar grace, nor boasts in vain. * The large and handsome hotel, built in the year 1792, by fir Jobo Stances

, and which converts there pleasant downs into a commodious fea-balking place.

+ Lores, Household-gods.


Tho' near the beach, dark Helbrie's lonely ille,

Reposes sullen in the watry way,
Hears round her rocks the tides, returning, boil,

And o’er her dusky sandals dash their spray.
Mark, to the left, romantic Cambria's coast,

Her curtain’d mountains rising o'er the floods ;
While seas on Orm's beak'd promontory burst,

Blue Deva swells her mirror to the woods.

High o'er that varied ridge of Alpine forms,

Vaft Moel-y-Fammau * towers upon the light,
Lifts her maternal bosom to the storms,

And screens her filial mountains from their blight.

Far on the right, the dim Lancastrian plains,

In pallid distance, glimmer thro' the sky,
Tho', hid by jutting rocks, thy splendid fanes,

Commercial Liverpool, elude the eye.
Wide in the front the confuent oceans roll,

Amid whose restless billows guardian Hoyle,
To screen her azure lake when tempests howl,

Spreads the firm texture of her amber ifle t.
And tho' the surging tide's resistless waves

Roll, day, and night, its level surface o'er,
Tho' the skies darken, and the whirlwind raves,

They froth,—but rush innoxious to the shore.
When fear-struck sea-men, ʼmid the raging food,

Hear thundering shipwreck yell her dire decrees,
See her pale arm rend every fail, and throud,

And o'er the high mast lift her whelming seas,

If to thy quiet harbour, gentle Hoyle,

The Matter'd navy thro' the tempest Aies,
Each joyous mariner forgets his toil,

And carols to the vainly angry skies.

What tho? they vex the lake's cerulean stream,

And curl its billows on the shelly floor,
Yet, in despite of Fancy's timid dream,

Age, and infirmity, inay plunge fecure.


* Moel-y-Famnau, the first word spoken as onc syllable, as if spelt Mole. The name fignifies in Welch Mother of Ment28s. It is seen in the Hoyle-Lake prospect, behind the Flintshire hills, and confiderabiy bigher than any of them.

+ Amber Ifle, the San. Laut, fixiniles long, and four broad, which lying in the sea, 3 mile from thore, forras the lake; ani breaking the force of the tides, conftitutes the , safety of that lake as an harbour and bathing-place.


How gay the scene when spring's fair mornings breako

Or Turner nons iHume the grały mound,
When auch I'd navies crowd the penpled takt,

Or deck the distant ocean's fkley bound.

Like leafless forests, on its verge extreme

Rre the tall malts ;--of reading wide their fails,
Silvering, and shining in the folar beam,

Stand on that last Blue line, and court thé gales.
The peopled lake, of song, and lively cheer,

And boatswain's whistle bears the jovial found;
While rosy pennants, foating on the air,

Tinge the soft seas of glass, that sleep around.

'Twas on these downs * the Belgian hero spread

His ardent legions in auspicious hours,
Ere in Ierne's hoftile shores he led

To deathless glory their embattled powers.

When, like the conqueror of the Eastern world,

That ftemmid with dauntless breast the Granic food,
His victor swori inmortal Wiliam whirld,

And Boyne's pale waters dyed with rebet blood.

Since now, to health devoted, this calm More

Breathes renovation in its foamy wave,
For the kind Donor thail each heart implore,

The good his energies to others gave.

That long on him clear-cheek'd Hygeia's smile,

And long on all he loves, rerene may iline,
Who from thy sparkling coast, beniguant Hoyle,

Diffus'd the bleslings of her crystal thrine.

Ode on his Majesty's BIRTH-DAY.



HERE are the vows the Muses breath'd,

Thit Discord's fatal reign might cease?
Where all the blooming flow'ts they wreath'd,

To bind the placid brow of Peace;

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* King William encamped his army on the Hoyle lake downsy before he took taip. phg from thence, on his victorious expedition to Ireland.


Whose angel-form, with radiant beam,
Pictur'd in Fancy's fairy-dream,
Seemd o'er Europa's ravag'd land,

Prompt to extend her influence bland,
Calm the rude clangors of the martial lay,
And hail with gentler note our monarch's natal day?


For, lo ! on yon devoted fore,

Still through the bleeding ranks of war, His burning axles steep'd in gore,

Ambition drives his iron car. Still his eyes, in fury rollid,

Glare on fields by arms o'er run;
Still his hands rapacious hold

Spoils injurious inroad won;
And, spurning with indignant frown
The rober olive's proffer'd crown,
Bids the brazen trumpet's breath
Swell the terrific blast of destiny and death.


Shrinks Britain at the sound? Though, while her eye

O'er Europe's desolated plains the throws,
Slow to avenge, and mild in victory,

She mourns the dreadful scene of war and woes ;
Yet, if the foe, misjudging, read
Dismay in Pity's gentlest deed,
And, construing mercy into fear,

The blood-stain'd arm of battle rear,
By insult rous'd in just resentment warm,
She frowns defiance on the threat'ning storm;

And, far as Ocean's billows roar,

By ev'ry wave encircled shore,
From where o'er icy seas the gaunt wolf roves,
To coasts perfumed by aromatic groves;
As proudly to the ambient sky
In filken folds her mingled crosses fly;

The soothing voice of Peace is drown'd

Awhile in war's tumultuous sound,
And strains, from Glory's awful clarion blown,
Float in triumphant peal around Britannia's throne.




Ode to Bertie Greatheed, intended to counteract the effect of the

mistaken and querulous Picture of Human Nature, drawn by Ma.

Gray in his Obe on a distant prospect of ETON COLLEGE. [From an Ode to a Boy at Eton, with three Sonnets, and one


Mox etiam pectus præceptis format amicis,
Afperitatis, et invidiæ corrector, et iræ,
Reae facta refert.

Hor. Epist. Lib. 2. Ep. 1

E tho' mistaken kindness doom'd

Meso willi'd a mother's care

Ere yet the buds of genius bloom'd)
To breathe iny native air; .
Forbade to cull the fairer flowers
That thrive in Academic bowers,
And clip'd my youth's aspiring wings;
-Envious of Fancy's brighter day,
I trod thinglorious private way
To Learning's hidden springs !
Thee, BERTIE ! happier fates attend,
Nor is it thine to mourn
From thee the father and the friend
By death, untimely, torn!
Thee, Bertie! worthy of thy fire!
Let generous emulation fire
With high-born pride, with ardor keen,
Like heroes in th' Olympic race,
Still to assert the foremost place
In Eton's crouded scene!

To“ chase the rolling circle's speed,"
To 6 urge the flying ball,”
Thro' yielding waves the way to lead,
The fluttering bird enthrall,
Or fearful snatch the truant joy;
These may thy vacant hours employ.
But strenuous'seek a nobler prize,
To charm when thou no more art young;
Nor think, whate'er a Gray has fung,
“ 'Tis Folly to be WISE!"
Tho' Passion and Disease may rage
In Man with baleful ftrife,
Tho' numerous Ills, in riper age,
Cast their black shade o'er life,
All is not Grief --what song can tell
The heart-expanding thoughts that swell
The pure, and lore-enlighten'd, breaft!


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