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For, blended with the bad, the good

The common ftroke have felt,

And heaven's dire vengeance ftruck alike

At innocence and guilt.

The wrath divine purfues the wretch,

At prefent lame, and flow,

But yet, though tardy to advance,

She gives the furer blow.

The THIRD ODE of the Fourth Book of

WHO

HORACE, Paraphrafed.

HOM firft, Melpomene, thy eye
With friendly aspect views,

Shall from his cradle rife renown'd,

And facred to the Mufe.

Nor to the Ifthmian games his fame
And deathless triumphs owe;
Nor fhall he wear the verdant wreath,
That shades the champion's brow.
Nor in the wide Elæan plains

Fatigue the courser's speed;

Nor through the glorious cloud of dust,
Provoke the bounding fteed.

Nor, as an haughty victor, mount

The Capitolian heights,

And proudly dedicate to Jove

The trophies of his fights.

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Because his thundering hand in war

Has check'd the swelling tide

Of the ftern tyrant's power, and broke
The measures of his pride.

But by fweet Tybur's groves and streams
His glorious theme pursues,

And fcorns the laurels of the war,

For thofe that crown the Mufe.

There in the most retir'd retreats,
He fets his charming fong,

To the fweet harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus ftrung.

Rank'd by thy fons, Imperial Rome,

Among the poet's quire,

Above the reach of envy's hand

I fafely may afpire.

Thou facred Mufe, whofe artful hand

Can teach the bard to fing;

Can animate the golden lyre,

And wake the living string:

Thou, by whofe mighty power, may fing,

In unaccustom'd strains,

The filent fishes in the floods,

As on their banks the fwans.

To thee I owe my fpreading fame,
That thousands, as they gaze,

Make me their wonder's common theme,

And object of their praise.

If

If firft I ftruck the Lesbian lyre,

No fame belongs to me;

I owe my honours, when I please,

(If e'er I pleafe) to thee.

On the approaching CONGRESS of CAMBRAY.

YE

Written in 1721.

E patriots of the world, whofe cares combin'd
Confult the public welfare of mankind,

One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait,
And Europe in fufpence attend her fate,
Which turns on your great councils; nor refuse
To hear the strains of the prophetic Muse;
Who fees thofe councils with a generous care
Heal the wide wounds, and calm the rage
She fees new verdure all the plain o'erspread,
Where the fight burn'd, and where the battle bled.
The fields of death a fofter fcene difclofe,

of war;

And Ceres fmiles where iron harvests rofe.
The bleating flocks along the baftion pass,
And from the awful ruins crop the grass.
Freed from his fears, each unmolefted fwain,
In peaceful furrows cuts the fatal plain ;

Turns the high bulwark and aspiring mound,
And fees the camp with all the seasons crown'd.
Beneath each clod, bright burnish'd arms appear;
Each furrow glitters with the pride of war;
The fields refound and tinkle as they break,
And the keen faulchion rings against the rake;

At

At reft beneath the harging ramparts laid,
He fings fecurely in the dreadful flade.

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Hark! -o'er the feas, the British lions roar
Their monarch's fame to every diftant fhore:
Swift on their canvass wings his navies go,
Where-ever tides can roll, or winds can blow
Their fails within the ar&ic circle rife,
Led by the stars that gild the northern skies;
Tempt frozen feas, nor fear the driving blast,
But fwell exulting o'er the hoary waste ;
O'er the wide ocean hold fupreme command,
And active commerce spread through every land;
Or with full pride to fouthern regions run,
To diftant worlds, on t'other fide the fun;
And plow the tides, where odoriferous gales
Perfume the smiling waves, and ftretch the bellying fails.
See! the proud merchant seek the precious shore,
And trace the winding veins of glittering ore;
Low in the earth his wondering eyes behold
Th' imperfect metal ripening into gold.
The mountains tremble with alternate rays,
And caft at once a fhadow and a blaze:

Streak'd o'er with gold, the pebbles flame around,
Gleam o'er the foil, and gild the tinkling ground;
Charg'd with the glorious prize, his vessels come,
And in proud triumph bring an India home.
Fair Concord, hail; thy wings o'er Brunswick spread,
And with thy olives crown his laurel'd head.
Come; in thy most diftinguish'd charms appear;
Oh! come, and bolt the iron-gates of war.

The fight stands ftill when Brunswick bids it ceafe,
The monarch speaks, and gives the world a peace; ·
Like awful juftice, fits fuperior lord,

To poise the balance, or to draw the fword;
In due fufpenfe the jarring realms to keep,
And hufh the tumults of the world to fleep.

Now with a brighter face, and nobler ray,
Shine forth, thou Source of light, and God of day;
Say, didft thou ever in thy bright career
Light up before a more diftinguifh'd year?
Through all thy journeys past thou canst not see
A perfect image of what this fhall be :

Scarce the Platonic year fhall this renew,
Or keep the bright original in view.

THE FABLE OF

THE YOUNG MAN and his CAT.

A Hapless youth, whom fates avere had drove

To a ftrange paffion, and prepofterous love,
Long'd to poffefs his pufs's fpotted charms,
And hug the tabby beauty in his arms.
To what odd whimfies love inveigles men?
Sure if the boy was ever blind, 'twas then.
Rack'd with his paffion, and in deep despair,
The youth to Venus thus addreft his prayer.

O queen of beauty, fince thy Cupid's dart
Has fir'd my foul, and rankles in my heart;
Since doom'd to burn in this unhappy flame,
From thee at least a remedy I claim;

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