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The Grecian chiefs, of mighty fame,
Impatient for the fon of Thetis wait;
At last the fon of Thetis came ;

Troy fhook her nodding towers, and mourn'd th' impending fate.

XXII.

O facred Peace! Goddefs ferene!

Adorn'd with robes of fpotlefs white,
Fairer than filver floods of light!
How fhort has thy mild empire been!

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When pregnant Time brought forth this new-born age,

At first we saw thee gently smile

On the young birth, and thy fweet voice awhile

Sung a foft charm to martial rage:

But foon the lion wak'd again,

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And stretch'd his opening claws, and fhook his grifly

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Soon was the year of triumphs past;

And Janus, ufhering in a new,

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With backward look did pompous fcenes review;

But his fore-face with frowns was overcaft;

He faw the gathering ftorms of war,

And bid his priests aloud, his iron gates unbar.

XXIII.

But heaven its hero can no longer spare,
To mix in our tumultuous broils below;

Yet fuffer'd his foreseeing care,

Thofe bolts of vengeance to prepare,
Which other hands fhall throw;
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That

That glory to a mighty queen remains,
To triumph o'er th' extinguish'd foe
She shall supply the thunderer's place;
As Pallas, from th' ætherial plains,
Warr'd on the giants impious race,

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And laid their huge demolish'd works, in fmoaky ruins low.

Then Anne's fhall rival great Eliza's reign;
And William's genius, with a grateful smile,

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Look down, and bless this happy ifle; And Peace, reftor'd, shall wear her olive crown again.

"Vicem gerit illa Tonantis." The Motto on her Majefty's Coronation Medals.

ODE

O DE

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

A

I.

POLLO, god of founds and verse,

Pathetic airs and moving thoughts infpire! Whilst we thy Damon's praife rehearse: Damon himself could animate the lyre. Apollo, god of founds and verse, Pathethic airs and moving thoughts inspire! Look down! and warm the fong with thy celeftial fire. II.

Ah, lovely youth when thou wert here,
Thyself a young Apollo did appear;

Young as that god, so fweet a grace,
Such blooming fragrance in thy face;
So foft thy air, thy vifage fo ferene,
That harmony ev'n in thy look was seen.

III.

But when thou didst th' obedient ftrings command, And join in confort thy melodious kand, Ev'n fate itself, fuch wondrous strains to hear,

Fate had been charm'd, had Fate an ear,

But what does mufic's skill avail?
When Orpheus did his lofs deplore,

Trees bow'd attentive to his tale;

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Hufh'd were the winds, wild beasts forgot to roar ; But dear Eurydice came back no more.

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IV.

Then ceafe, ye fons of harmony, to mourn ;

Since Damon never can return.

See, fee! he mounts, and cleaves the liquid way! 25 Bright choirs of angels, on the wing,

For the new gueft's arrival stay,

And hymns of triumph fing.

They bear him to the happy feats above,
Seats of eternal harmony and love;

Where artful Purcell went before.

Ceafe then, ye fons of mufic, cease to mourn
Your Damon never will return,

No, never, never more!

за

NACRE O N.

A

ODE

A

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T dead of night, when mortals lofe
Their various cares in foft repofe,

I heard a knocking at my door:
Who's that, faid I, at this late hour
Disturbs my reft ?—It fobb'd and cry'd,
And thus in mournful tone reply'd.
"A poor unhappy child am I,

"That 's come to beg your charity;
"Pray let me in!-You need not fear;
"I mean no harm, I vow and fwear;
"But, wet and cold, crave shelter here;

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"Betray'd by night, and led aftray,
"I've loft-alas! I've loft my way."
Mov'd with this little tale of fate,
I took a lamp, and op'd the gate;
When fee! a naked boy, before
The threshold; at his back he wore
A pair of wings, and by his fide
A crooked bow and quiver ty'd.
"My pretty angel! come, faid I,
"Come to the fire, and do not cry!"
I ftrok'd his neck and fhoulders bare,
And squeez'd the water from his hair;
Then chaf'd his little hands in mine,
And chear'd him with a draught of wine.
Recover'd thus, fays he; "I'd know,
"Whether the rain has spoil'd my bow;
"Let's try"-then shot me with a dart.
The venom throbb'd, did ake and smart,
As if a bee had ftung my heart.

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"Are these your thanks, ungrateful child, "Are these your thanks ?"—Th' impoftor fmil'd: "Farewell, my loving hoft, fays he; "All's well; my bow 's unhurt, I fee; "But what a wretch I've made of thee !"

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