But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, And now the graffy cirque han cover'd o'er A thousand ways in wanton rings they run; Heaven fhield their fhort-liv'd paflimes, I implore! For well may Freedom, erft fo dearly won, Appear to British elf more glad fome than the fun. Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your fportive trade, O vain, to feek delight in earthly things! See in each fprite fome various bent appear! Some builden fragile tenements of clay ;· Some to the ftanding lake their courses bend, With pebbles fmooth, at duck and drake to play; Thilk to the huxter's fav'ry cottage tend, In paftry kings and queens th'allotted mite to spend. Here, Here, as each feafon yields a different store, Galling full fore th' unmonied wight, are feen; O may no wight e'er pennylefs come there, With thread fo white in tempting pofies tied, The plum all azure, and the nut all brown ; Whofe honour'd names th' inventive city own, Rend'ring thro' Britain's ifle Salopia's praises known*. Admir'd Salopia! that with venial pride Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, Her daughters lovely, and her ftriplings brave: Ah! midft the reft, may flow'rs adorn his grave Whofe art did first thefe dulcet cates difplay! A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, Who cheerlefs o'er her darkling region ftray, Till Reafon's morn arise, and light them on their way. ODE *Shrewbury Cakes. ODE TO WISDOM, By Mifs CARTER, HE folitary bird of night THE Thro' the pale fhades now wings his flight, And quits the time-fhook tow'r, Where, fhelter'd from the blaze of day, In philophic gloom he lay, Beneath his ivy bow'r. With joy I hear the folemn found, Which midnight echoes waft around,. And fighing gales repeat: Fav'rite of Pallas! I attend, And, faithful to thy fummons, bend She loves the cool, the filent eve, Beneath the lunar ray; Here Folly drops each vain difguife, Nor fports her gaily-colour'd dyes, O Pallas!' O Pallas! queen of ev'ry art, "That glads the fenfe, or mends the heart," Bleft fource of purer joys; In ev'ry form of beauty bright, To thy unfpotted shrine I bow, Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume, Be objects of my pray'r, Let av'rice, vanity, and pride, To me thy better gifts impart, By ftudious thought refin'd: For wealth, the fmiles of glad content; Whea When Fortune drops her gay parade, And wither in the tomb, Unchang'd is thy immortal prize, In undecaying bloom. By thee protected, I defy The coxcomb's fneer, the ftupid lye Of ignorance and spite; Alike contemn the leaden fool, And all the pointed ridicule Of und fcerning wit. From envy, hurry, noise, and ftrife, In thy retreat I reft; Purfue thee to thy peaceful groves, He bid Illyffus' tuneful stream Of perfect, fair, and good: In awful filence flood. Reclaim'd |