For so fierce is the passion which Stella inspires, | Horrid with gold, and formidably bright WARM'D with thy verse, which Liberty inspires, The honest praise a friend may dare to give. Next brave Leonidas, with virtue warm'd, He lightens and he thunders through the fight; If blest immortals bend their thoughts below, Did Homer, say, thy glowing breast inspire Blest is thy fancy which durst first despise Nor Tasso's points, but Virgil's sober rage. When Ariana grasps th' abhorred dart, To draw one tear from dear lanthe's eye. Born on the wings of verse their names shall rise, ་ Hail, Poetry! whose life infusing lays Glover! thy mind, in various virtue wise, The merchant thus, by heav'nly wisdom led, (Each kingdon noted, and each law survey'd) On Britain pours whate'er can serve mankind, Adorn the body, or delight the mind. Spices which blow'd in Araby the blest, And breath'd a Paradise around the east. Unclouded sapphires show their azure sky, Em'raids with smiling green refresh the eye: Here bleeds the ruby, diamonds sparkle there, To tremble on the bosoms of our fair. Yet shou'd the Sun with ten-fold lustre shine, Exait with deeper dies the flaming mine, Shou'd softer breezes and more genial skies Bid sweeter spice, in blooming order, rise, Nor gems nor spice cou'd Nature know to name, Bright as thy wit, or fragrant as thy fame. ODE BRUMALIS: AD AMICUM OXONIENSEM. EHEU! sereni mollia tempora Conduntur anni. Fila, puer, lyræ Lascivientis frange: Bruma Fiebilis officium Camoenæ Pullata poscit; non salis Attici Hæc flore gaudet. Præterit ocyor Equo Maronis, nec scit uno Stare loco saliens voluptas. Quò cessit Umbræ gloria frondeæ ? Quò Serta, mixtis viva coloribus, Ornare non indigna Popi Marmora, sive comas Ianthæ. Heu Veris ætas occidit aurea, Estatis atque argentea, & ærea Recessit Autumni, severæ Ferrea sola Hyemis remansit. Sic vita transit nostra! volantibus Urgetur horis. Quid Sapiens aget, Quid ergo Prudens? Iile, certè, Dona rapit fug entis horæ, Gratus Deorum cultor. Hyems Virum, Quem lavit Isis, Flumen Apollinis, Quem Suada puro melle fovit, Intrepidum feriet procellis. Nigrescat æther, pectore candido Pax alba ridet: mugiat Africus, Eurusque; tu, tranquilla Virtus, Vere tumens, Zephyros reduces. Tranquilla Virtus, nescia criminis, Mente quatit placidâ Novembris. Nec me November mente hilari quatit, Dulcè vices subeunte Baccho. Si grandis inflet Calliope Tubam, Mentem illa semper cantu Heliconio Accendit: Io! me jam aperto Virgilius dedit ire cœlo. Pompam Theatri visere sæpiùs Garrickus urget, Dramatis Arbiter! Decore, gestu, voce, vultu Ille oculos capit, ille mentes. Odi profanos, pace tuâ, jocos, Vanburge, odi: me gravis attrahit Shakespear, Cothurnati per ævum Omne Pater, Columenque Regni, Heus!-deme Soccos:-alta Tragædia Quod fulmen aures non imitabile Et corda steroit: Terror amabilis Pervadit intùs nos:-Othello!En rabido tonat ore Othello! Proh! quantus iræ gurges inæstuat Ah! gemit-ah! trepidat-ruensque, Procumbit heros!-Gaudia sunt nimis Hæc sæva, Shakespear! Turbinibus sinus Perflas voluptatis micantes: Ferre animus timet hos tumultus. Mutare Scenam jam lubet,-Ibimus, 2uo suavis Otway nos vocat, ibimus, lantha! quamvis, pulchra fletu, Turgidulis redeas ocellis. Planctus gementum planctibus addere O quæ paventum murmura Virginum Questusque mulcent aera Odoribus!--Tu vincis, Otway! corda vincis; Euripidis renovans triumphos. 17 With Mantua's swan, and range the boundless sky. With eager joy I oft repair To the gay crowded theatre, Where shines the man who treads our stage, Garrick! the Roscius of the age! His voice, mien, manner, look, a life imparts; 'Tis he who captivates our eyes,―our hearts. Vanbrugh, your leave,what's lewdly writ And kindle at his sacred fire: Sole monarch o'er theatric plains. Hence with the sock:-the queen commands:Grac'd with the golden buskin stands: The stage in majesty improves, Trembling beneath her, awful as she moves. What thunder bursts!-it made me start- What tenderness!-what fierce disdain He groans, he trembles,-falls,-the hero dies! Shakspeare, excessive joys like these (I almost said) are cruelties: Whirlwinds of pleasure tear the panting breast, And the mind aches, too exquisitely blest. Chang'd is the scene:-methinks I rove Sweet is the sympathy of woe; Have I not seen (nay felt 'em too) Down stealing Tears, big, silent, slow, Speak a soft language as they flow, Daughters of tender Grief, express Charming Monimia's deep distress! C Audite, Cœli! num modulaminis Tales triumphos aula refert Jovis Stellata? Sphærarumve tales Lucidus & numerosus ordo? O lene murmur! cum Venus aurea Inire somnos, strata rosis, parat, Melosque poscit; talis aura Idalias tremit inter umbras, Quæ flamma venis pasta! potentibus Sic prata sævis florea solibus Metcafii medicos, sodales! Frustrà: nec unquàm Metcafii manus Extinguet ignes, docta licèt, meos; Nec flumen, ah! vestri benignis Ingenii recreabit undis. ODE VERNALIS: AD AMICUM OXONIENSEM. CURAS Lyæus jàm mihi discutit Raptìm; nec aurum (suavitèr insolens) Vocale de myrto recuso Vellere liberiore dextrâ. Et quis vetabit quò minùs audeam Lusus amico mittere cum joco! Ridere mens est; terra ridet; Ipsa Venus negat esse tristes, Jucunda veris diva. Quid ampliùs Ruga juvabunt? Versicoloribus En Maius alis raptus afflat Lætitiam genialis auræ. Amice! (blando hoc nomine te vocem, O Woode?) cum quo sæpè per Isidis Errare sylvas, nùncque cantu Nuncque mero licuit morantes. Duxisse soles in Thetidis toros, Cingunt coronis? Quæquè molles Inter Lacertos? Nùm charitum chorus, Nunc dulce pictis desipere in toro Herbis tumenti, vivus ubì tremor Splendescit undæ; si poëtæ, Siquè aderint, tua cura, musæ. Adsit jocorum grata protervitas, Thalia pleno quos tibi depluit Cornu: nec absit Bacchus, uvæ, Evohe! purpureus magister. Handalus omnes tendere barbiti Nervos laboret; nec sileat placens Iantha cantu, dùm jocoso Tangit ebur geniale plęctro. SPRING; A TRANSLATION OF ODE VERNALIS. By the Reverend Mr. Tattersal, late Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. CARE flies the raptures of the bowl, "T is jolly Bacchus fills my soul; I feel within the genial fire, And from yon myrtle snatch my golden lyre. To thee the jocund Muse I send, With sprightly lay to greet my friend: For all things now around look gay, Why mayn't I laugh, as well as they? The fair, the young, my hours beguile, And Cytherea ever wears a smile, Creative goddess of the Spring! No more of Winter's storms I sing, See May in wanton joy appear Spread his gay wings, and fan the buxom Year. My friend (indulge the tender name) O tell me what soft triumphs now 'Tis merry May, swains, greet the Graces' shrine. To frolic on the tufted grass, To view clear waters as they pass, To mark the shining shivering gleam The season bids: a friend or two, Whose answers bite, yet biting please, To kindle mirth: and let me join Bacchus, the purple sovereign of the vine, May god-like Handel now inspire The tuneful pow'rs and fill the choir: Janthe, charming as she sings, Wake with a nimble touch th' harmonious strings. Listen, ye Heavens, to strains, above And music trembles round from pole to pole. O melting sound! when sleep unseen Just steals upon the Cyprian queen, Indulging in th' Idalian shade, Stretcht on a couch, of roses made, The lute soft-warbling, such the air High-smiling in delight a lady sate, Young as the dawning Morn, on iv'ry throne; That undulating plays, and lulls th' immortal fair. Upon her looks the virgin-virtues wait, The flames that feed within my breast! I faint, I die, with charms opprest; So languishes, and fades away By Pæan taught, may try, but try in vain. The virgin-virtues wait on her alone! A sweet regard and most auspicious grace Upon her lap a lovely infant lay, And ken'd the mother by her smiling grace. His looks were radiant as the bloom of day, And angel-sweetness purpled in his face. Oh! how the mother did the babe embrace With tender blandishment and fondling care! She gaz'd, and gaz'd, ne8 could enough caress His cheeks, as roses red, as lilies fair, [heir! The holy Day-spring hight, Heav'n's everlasting Near him a goodly pers'nage mildly shone, With looks of love, and shedding peace and joy: Her looks were love, soft streaming from the throne Of Grace, and sweetly melted on the boy: 'Twas morn! the fields were sprinkled o'er with Her tongue dropp'd honey, which wou'd never cloy. light, The folds unpent sent out their flocks to feed: Eftsoons he spy'd a grove, the Season's pride, Dr. T. Metcalf, an eminent physician who died in 1757. C. ! Named or called, 2uickly. Immediately. Mercy yclep'd 9. All Nature on her hung, Thus if the clouds, enroll'd with deadly food, In fostering dews, and balm, and honey-show'rs; 4 Humility. 6 I think. 8 Nor. [sing. 5 Formerly, sometime since. 7 The pattern or model, 9 Called or named. |