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SPECIMEN of a Tranflation of the ODYSSEY.

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Joy wing'd her feet and lighten'd ev'ry limb; 1,
Then to the room with speed impatient borne
Flew with the tidings of her lord's return....
There bending o'er the fleeping queen, he cries,
Rife, my Penelope, my daughter, rife
To fee Ulyffes thy long abfent fpoule,
Thy foul's defire and lord of all thy vows
Though late, he comes, and in his rage has flain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty fuitor train.
Ah, Euryclea, fhe replies, you rave;

The gods refume that reafon which they gave;
For Heaven deep wifdom to the fool supplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wife.
And wisdom once was thine! but now I find
The gods have ruin'd thy distemper'd mind.
How could you hope your fiction to impofe?
Was it to flatter or deride my woes?
How could you break a fleep with talk so vain,
That held my forrows in fo foft a chain ?
A fleep fo sweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy:
Curft Troy-oh! why did I thy name disclose ?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes :
But fly-fome other had provok'd my rage,
And you but owe your pardon to your age.

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No artful tales, no ftudied lies, I frame,
Ulyffes lives (rejoins the reverend dame)
In that dishonour'd ftranger's close disguise,
Long has he pafs'd all unfufpecting eyes,
All but thy fon's-and long has he fuppreft
The well-concerted fecret in his breaft;
Till his brave father fhould his foes defeat,
And the close scheme of his revenge compleat.
Swift as the word the queen transported sprung,
And round the dame in ftrict embraces hung;
Then as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her foul.
If my victorious hero fafe arrives,

If my dear lord, Ulyffes, ftill furvives,
Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were fuch multitudes destroy'd by one ?
Nought I beheld, but heard their cries, the faid,
When death flew raging, and the suitors bled :
Immur'd we liften'd, as we fat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing found.
Call'd by thy fon to view the scene I fled,
And faw Ulyffes ftriding o'er the dead!
Amidst the rifing heaps the hero stood
All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood..

CON

The Twelfth Ode of the First Book of Horace,

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The XXIId Ode of the Firft Book of Horace.

A Prologue for the Strollers.

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The Third Chapter of Job.

The XXVth Chapter of Job Paraphrased.

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The Song of Mofes, in the XVth Chapter of Exodus,

The Third Ode of the Second Book of Horace

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The Third Ode of the Fourth Book of Horace,

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The Fable of the Young Man and his Cat.

To Mr. Pope, on his Tranflation of Homer's
Iliad.

Part of the First Æneid of Virgil Tranflated.

On his Majesty's playing with a Tiger in Kenfington Gardens.

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Ode to John Pitt, Efq; advising him to build a Banqueting-houfe on a Hill that over-looks the Sea. 285

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Ode

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